


The Dragon Murders

by Raine_Wynd



Series: The Dragon Murders [1]
Category: The Sentinel, Witchblade (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, Destiny, Gen, Homicide, Magic, Murder, Mystery, Religion, Sentinel Senses, Spirit Animals, Tattoos, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-26
Updated: 2008-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Sara wanted was to start over, but Cascade's no ordinary city. Can she and Jim solve a series of murders before it's too late? Written for the crossovers 100 LJ challenge, prompt #35: Sixth Sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon Murders

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nevada, who feeds my plot bunnies over dinner at 13 Coins and elsewhere. Mmm, calamari.... Thanks also to Dragon for helping, as always, and to technoshaman, for letting me bounce ideas off him. Much gratitude to my betas: Kicka8p, Shrewreader, and Keerawa.
> 
> This fic ignores second season of WB canon, and is written for the crossovers 100 LJ challenge, prompt #35: Sixth Sense. Dates for the Sentinel timeline are based on Nightowl's Sentinel Timeline.
> 
> Rated Adult for graphic violence, language, and what the American TV ratings board likes to call "adult" situations.

_May 2003_

Jim studied his friend, seeing the familiar traces of a restless night, compounded by the fact that Blair was currently injured. For a moment, he missed the days when Blair shared the loft with him – he might’ve been able to get Blair to get some sleep if only out of guilt for keeping Jim up as well – but Jim pushed the wistfulness aside. He remembered when one of the condos in a neighboring building had come up for sale three years ago, Blair had jumped at the chance to finally have his own space, and Jim had to admit he’d missed his privacy. Still, they carpooled whenever they could.

"You look like shit," Jim observed. "Did you get any sleep last night? Pain keeping you up?"

Blair ran a tired hand through his short hair and shook his head. "Not really, and some – you know I hate taking those damned pain pills. Kept dreaming I was patrolling the eastern perimeter of the city out by Hargrove Point, except I was the wolf, and there was this medieval knight standing on the Hargrove Point Bridge like some kind of warning."

Jim frowned, well aware that anytime either of them got a dream like that it meant something – usually danger. "Maybe it is, Chief. You see the jaguar anywhere or anything else?"

Blair shook his head again as he grabbed the pot of coffee off its stand and poured some into the insulated mug he had standing by. "No, but I had the sense that you’re there behind me somewhere. Guarding. Growling at the knight, probably. I know I was snarling at it, like I’d seen the damn thing before and hadn’t liked what it had brought with it the last time." Before he snapped on the lid of the travel mug, he took a healthy swig of coffee, grimaced, doctored it with sugar and cream, then refilled what he’d drunk. "It’s probably nothing more than me being paranoid again. It’s spring, ergo, time for all the crazies that hibernated this winter to come out."

Jim snorted. "Isn’t that my line, Chief?" he teased as he watched the other man slip on a shoe – his right was in a walking cast – and grab his keys. Jim grimaced at the reminder his Guide and friend was not 100%; Blair had torn a muscle when he’d landed wrong running after a suspect two days before. It was a measure of just how often Blair had been hurt as well as his determination that he moved fairly easily, if a bit slowly. Jim didn't like it – he'd prefer if Blair was off the leg as per doctor's orders – but they'd already argued the point once, and they couldn't get out of this meeting.

"Oh, probably," Blair said easily as they walked out of his condo and down to the parking lot where Jim’s truck was parked. "Any idea why Simon wants to meet with both of us this morning?"

"No clue, man," Blair said. "He wasn’t talking when I went over to help Daryl with his homework." Blair shook his head a moment. "Daryl really didn’t need the help as much as the assurance he wasn’t doing the wrong thing."

"Kid’s gonna graduate college in six weeks. Isn’t that a little late to panic?"

"Not when he just received his Academy acceptance letter."

Jim chuckled. "He’s wanted to be a cop since he was fourteen, even after the mess with Kincaid. What’s there to panic about?"

"That he won’t be good enough to be his father’s son," Blair said easily as they reached Jim’s latest truck, a late-model Ford Ranger that had replaced yet another vehicle sacrificed in the line of duty.

Jim considered that a moment. "What did you say?"

Blair grinned. "That he didn’t have to be his father’s son, but his own man."

"Well said," Jim complimented him as they got into the truck. "Did it help?"

Blair chuckled. "That remains to be seen. You know Daryl."

"Yeah, Chief, I do."

****

"Any hints?" Blair said in an undertone as they stepped into the Major Crimes bullpen.

Jim focused his senses on Simon’s office. The blinds were drawn, but that didn’t stop Jim. He could smell the coffee – vanilla Sumatra – and heard a second heartbeat before he had a flash of his jaguar, growling at a medieval knight. Jim fought the urge to shiver; whatever had his animal spirit riled wasn’t something Jim was going to like. Hastily, he bit back the urge to piggyback sight onto his sense of smell. "He’s got someone in there, and vanilla Sumatra."

"Anything else?" Tuned into Jim as always, Blair knew he had seen or heard something.

"Let’s just find out, shall we?" Jim said, shaking off the odd premonition.

They stepped into the office to find Simon seated behind his desk while a woman sat in one of the guest chairs. She had in her lap the black binder both men recognized as the new recruit orientation manual. She had a slender to medium build, shoulder-length brown hair, and wore a brown suede blazer, black pants, and motorcycle boots. When she looked up from the binder, both men saw she had an oval face with a straight nose, a square jaw, perfectly arched eyebrows, green eyes and a mouth that was currently set in a reserved smile. Under the blazer she wore a black V-neck shirt. Her only jewelry, aside from a pair of gold stud earrings, was a silver bracelet with a large carnelian stone set in the center, worn on her right wrist. It peeked out from under the sleeve of her blazer as she clasped the edge of the binder.

"You wanted to see us, sir?" Jim asked as he shut the door behind Blair.

Simon nodded. "Ellison, Sandburg, meet Sara Pezzini. Detective Pezzini is formerly of the Homicide Division of the New York Police Department. Pezzini, this is Dr. Blair Sandburg, our forensic anthropology consultant. If you have any questions about Cascade’s communities, tribal cultures, or need help figuring out behavioral patterns, see him. Beside him is Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade’s best detective."

Handshakes were exchanged. Jim narrowed his eyes on his boss. "All right, out with the rest of it," he growled, noting his boss’s attempt at hiding his nerves. To anyone other than a Sentinel, Simon appeared calm. His heart rate betrayed him, though.

"Pezzini’s your new partner."

"What? I’m his partner!" Blair argued while Sara watched with interest.

"You’re not a cop," Simon told Blair.

"Oh, not that bullshit again," Jim growled. "How many more hoops does he have to go through to prove he is one?"

Simon sighed as Blair added, "What does the commissioner want now? I’m weapons qualified; I took the damn classes at the Academy, what the hell now?"

"Maggie Bryce’s trial is scheduled for next week."

"Oh, fuck," Blair said. "Look, I’m tied to a desk right now anyway, least until I get this cast off, why should it matter?"

"Commissioner wants to be able to say that you’re working on a project for him – which you will be, when you report to him -- and tell the media you’re not available for the next six weeks."

"Simon, you know I can’t operate that way," Jim interjected. "And six weeks tells me it’s not just the Bryce trial."

"No, it’s not. He’s getting asked to justify your position," Simon said, looking at Blair. "Again. So in addition to whatever he assigns you, I need you to put together an updated presentation, and at least pretend like all you do is what your job description says, so I can honestly tell the commissioner you were doing your job. I can’t do that if you’re out chasing criminals with Jim."

Jim and Blair exchanged looks, silently telling each other they’d talk about this outside of Simon’s office.

"Damn it, Simon, can't we just update the damn job description?" Jim growled, not liking the position he was in. He relied on Blair to be his partner, though he knew a huge part of it was the fact that Blair was his Guide. Jim's enhanced abilities were something of an open secret among the senior detectives of the department; everyone knew he had them, but no one publicly admitted they knew – or what, precisely, they knew. It still left him denying he had anything other than normal senses. More to the point, Jim didn't _want_ a new partner. He and Blair had the best solve rate in Cascade.

"No," Simon said flatly.

"Look, guys, if it makes you feel any better," Sara put in, "I’m used to working alone."

"How long ago did you move from New York?" Blair asked.

"Three weeks," Sara told him. "Wanted to get here and get through the transfer training as soon as I could."

"Cascade isn’t New York," Jim said flatly. He looked at Simon. "Let me guess. Commissioner requested I partner with Pezzini."

Simon shrugged, and slid an apologetic glance at Pezzini. "He wanted the best. Look, give it six weeks, and we’ll see about things then."

Blair knew a dismissal when he heard it. "Let me show you around," he said quickly to Sara. "She’s got Megan’s old desk, right?"

Simon nodded.

When the door had shut behind Blair and Sara, Jim turned to his old friend and boss. "Simon--"

Simon held up a hand. "Don’t start, Jim, I know how important Sandburg is to you. I know he’s your Guide. But the Commissioner made his wishes clear and having a case come to trial from when Sandburg was on an observer’s pass makes him nervous. It was either park Sandburg or you. I figured Sandburg was going to be easier."

"Easier, but –"

"Don’t argue, Ellison. You have a new partner for the next six weeks. I suggest you get moving on getting her up to speed, and get out of my office. Make sure she’s introduced to everyone."

Jim started to argue further, but gave up when he saw the look on his boss’s face.

****

Sara wasn’t sure what to think of her new coworkers. Aside from the fact she was clearly stepping into an established partnership, she kept getting flashes from the Witchblade of a jaguar and a wolf, looking at her as if she was intruding on their territory. She half-laughed to herself; she knew she was barging in, no matter whose territory it was. All she needed now, she thought dryly, was for the ghost of her first partner to show up – but she hadn’t seen Danny since she’d nearly died in a building on Fowse Street three years ago. It didn’t help, either, that she’d been dreaming of a nameless, faceless danger for weeks now.

Sandburg led her to a relatively clean desk near the far side of the bullpen, closest to the break room. They were stopped along the way by a handful of the other detectives, some of whom joked with Sandburg about his injury.

"Man, what did you do this time?" a dark haired, handsome, suavely dressed man asked Sandburg.

Sandburg grimaced. "Ripped the gastrocnemius muscle running after a suspect," he told him. "I’ll be in a walking cast for the next six to eight weeks. I’m trying for less."

The other man groaned. "I knew I should’ve stayed on vacation. That means Ellison’s going to be—"

"No, he’s not," Sandburg interrupted. "Pezzini, this is Detective Brian Rafe. Rafe, this is Detective Sara Pezzini. Jim’s new partner."

Rafe looked shocked. "What? You’re his partner!"

"Commissioner’s got a project he wants me on," Sandburg replied, "and the Bryce trial’s coming up."

Rafe frowned, then looked grim. "Oh, one of the cases where you were supposed to be just observing?"

Sandburg nodded.

"Oh." Rafe flashed Pezzini a guarded smile. "Welcome. Are you transferring from another department?"

Not liking the way Rafe had greeted her, Sara said tightly, "NYPD Homicide."

Surprise flashed across his face. "No kidding?" He eyed her more respectfully. "Come talk to me when the commissioner’s done borrowing Sandburg. I could use a good partner."

"You just miss Megan," Sandburg told him, and Rafe shrugged genially, not arguing the point. To Sara, Sandburg said, "Come on, just a little bit more to go and then we can be done."

The desk in question bore signs of a hasty cleaning, as if it had been used as a dumping ground. Someone had left a small stuffed kangaroo on the desk, which Sandburg quickly picked up. "Looks like someone was hoping Megan would be back," he said. "Sorry about that."

"Who’s Megan?"

"Inspector Megan O’Connor came here on a foreign exchange program," Sandburg told her. "She’s back in Australia; Immigration wasn’t going to let us extend her visa anymore."

"How long was she here?"

"Seven years. She just went back two months ago."

Sara absorbed that information as she dropped the binder she carried on the desk. "You were friends."

Sandburg shrugged. "We’re family," he said simply. "Where’d you get that bracelet? It looks very unique."

"It was given to me," Sara told him, not wanting to get into a deep discussion of the Witchblade in its innocuous form. Mindful of the fact the ends of the bracelet disappeared into the underside of her wrist, she was careful not to turn over her right forearm. "So if I’m Ellison’s partner, where does that leave you?"

"Stuck doing reports. Or, if I’m lucky, digging into the historical archives for some cold case that even a Sent- Sherlock Holmes couldn’t solve." Sandburg’s face twisted into a grimace. "I hate politics."

"So if you’re not a cop—"

"— I am a cop, Pezzini," he interrupted her, his voice quietly firm, his eyes like daggers as he stared at her. "A special investigator, with rank equivalent to a senior detective, and the same police powers as you. The brass likes to pull this shit about my position once a year, because undoubtedly someone’s pissed I came up with some theory that solved a case they couldn’t, and it doesn’t help that my title is Special Consultant. Wanna see my shield to prove it? Or is the fact I ripped a muscle trying to chase down a suspect sufficient proof?"

Realizing she’d made an error, Sara backpedaled. "No. Sorry. I’m just trying to understand."

Sara held up her hands in surrender as Ellison stepped up beside Sandburg. "Ease up, Chief," Ellison told him easily.

Sandburg started to say something before he clearly thought better of it.

Her new partner offered her a friendly smile, but his eyes didn’t reflect the warmth. "Did Captain Banks give you the grand tour yet?"

"Yeah, this morning. Still have to go down to get my weapon issued, but he said he wanted you to handle that."

"Good. Then let’s get started."

****

Having fresh eyes on his cases was admittedly a good thing, but Jim couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that kept nagging at him all day. He knew Blair well enough that gathering the data for his presentation wouldn’t take nearly as long as the commissioner thought – after four years of jumping through the same hoops, Blair had a file of data he kept specifically for this purpose. More to the point, Blair was used to doing research – whatever information he didn’t have, he knew how to acquire. What it did mean, though, was that Blair had to turn over his case notes to Sara, and immediately report to the police commissioner, whose office was on the top floor of the central precinct.

It was late afternoon before Sara was fully up to speed. She'd told him that her nickname was Pez, but he wasn't quite comfortable with that familiarity yet. Jim watched as she perused a case file, her eyes falling to one of the crime scene photographs. He heard her heartbeat speed up as something in the photo caught her eye. She rose, dropping the file to the desk, and he caught her arm, stopping her.

"Whoa, where do you think you’re headed?"

"To check out this crime scene again," she told him.

"You can’t," Jim told her. "That murder happened three weeks ago. Place has been cleaned up and any trace evidence you might find is gone. Assuming, of course, you know which Roanoke Street the address is at – which I doubt, since you haven’t lived here all that long. There’s three Roanoke Streets in Cascade – and none of them are anywhere near each other."

She stared at him, knowledge and frustration swimming in her eyes. Jim had the oddest sensation that she'd seen something he'd missed, knew something he didn't.

"So sit down and tell me what your hunch is, and we’ll see if you’re right."

Sara held his gaze a moment longer before visibly relaxing and sitting down. "Did you talk to the brother?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Did you ask him about the needles?"

"Yeah. Victim was a diabetic."

Sara looked at him. "And no one would notice if a diabetic had injected too much insulin."

"Or too little," Jim added, his eyes on her. He knew what he’d seen, but without the kind of evidence that would stand up in court, what he’d seen with Sentinel-enhanced vision was little more than wishful thinking.

She flipped through the case file, clearly looking for something. "You suspected something, else you wouldn’t have asked for what size needles the victim used."

"I didn’t ask that, Sandburg did." He wasn’t about to admit he’d zoned, trying to see the needle marks. That was information for his Guide and his Guide alone. Thank God they’d worked together for years and could cover for each other.

"We get the coroner’s report back yet?"

"Should be in this week."

"I’ll bet you ten bucks the tox screen will show the vic needed more insulin." She paused. "This is a straight homicide. Why didn’t they take it?"

Jim grimaced. "Victim is the cousin of a councilman."

Sara digested this. "This one of the ‘selected major crimes’ I was told about?" she half-joked.

"Yeah. It was an off week. No terrorists or psycho killers stalking the city."

"You get many of those?"

Jim half-laughed. "More than our share, some days. We get the coroner’s report back, we’ll see if we’re both right. Did you want to talk to the brother again while we wait?"

Sara considered the idea, seemingly drawing into herself as she thought. For a moment, Jim thought he saw the stone on her bracelet glow, thought he smelled something ancient and metal. "No. If we talk to him now, he’ll rabbit and lawyer up – and he’s connected, so that lawyer’ll have some teeth."

"Good point." Jim paused. "So why did you come all the way to Cascade?"

She eyed him warily, and she sat on the edge of her seat, as if she was ready to snarl at him if he said the wrong thing. "I’m surprised you don’t know it already. It was all over the papers in New York."

"East Coast news doesn’t always make it across the Mississippi, even with the Internet and national news casts."

Sara looked at him, clearly disbelieving.

Jim shrugged. "Sandburg says the media’s filtered and censored anyway, so if it did make it out here, it wouldn't necessarily be the major headline it was out there. I’m inclined to believe him. Even I wasn't, I have enough to focus on just here." He offered her a wry smile. "You know how that goes."

The tension in Sara’s shoulders eased somewhat, but she still perched on the edge of her seat, and let out a careful breath before she spoke. "Ever hear of Kenneth Irons?"

Jim shook his head. The name, like a lot of names, meant little to him outside the context of a case. He imagined his father would know that name instantly; the senior Ellison made his living out of such things, being a successful businessman.

"He was head of Vorschlag Industries – a billionaire, well-known on the East Coast. Had his hands in a lot of pies, mostly military. I was the cop who put him in prison for attempted murder of a police officer. Twenty-four hours later, he was dead. Heart attack, or so they tell me."

"So he never stood trial."

"I wish."

Jim studied her a moment, seeing the way she held herself so tightly. After spending most of the day in her company, Jim knew she was quick-witted, intelligent, and, from the comments she’d made, a highly intuitive person. She’d kept a fairly close rein on her temper, though he’d seen hints of it when he’d asked her questions to assess the breadth of her knowledge. She’d been insulted by the implication she didn’t know advanced police procedures, telling him she’d been a detective for the better part of the last decade. She was outwardly calm – the kind of calm any good cop learned to project – but her pulse was rapid, and her left hand rubbed her bracelet like a talisman.

Her body leached exhaustion like a soldier after a four-day hike through a jungle, and the weary acceptance that came from realizing you might never get another four days to recuperate. Someone not used to having to assess those under his command for that kind of exhaustion might have mistaken her weariness for recuperating from the move and the required eighty hours of Basic Law Enforcement Equivalency Academy. Jim wasn't that someone, and recognized she was bone-tired. There were a million explanations for a cause, but only one that made sense, given what she'd chosen to disclose.

"You the cop he tried to kill?"

Sara’s head jerked up at that. For a moment, the look of hate and grief on her face staggered Jim, and then it was gone, hidden under her mask. "Yeah. Son of a bitch stabbed me in the back; his bodyguard killed my partner in front of me. I got lucky – backup arrived in time for once – but once I healed, my captain wasn’t exactly supportive of my coming back. I figured I was better off being a cop elsewhere."

Jim took a deep breath and let it out. Hearing and seeing her grief made him remember all the people he’d lost, made him remember how he'd felt when he'd refused to accept Blair's death. If Simon hadn't been supportive, would he still be here? Jim knew the answer to that was a resounding no.

_Time to offer an olive branch, see if and how she takes it,_ he thought.

"My first partner in this department was murdered. His body wasn’t found until four years later. There was some question as to whether or not I did it."

Sara’s eyes were steady on Jim, but he could tell she was shifting gears away from wary suspicion. "If you had, you wouldn’t still be here and the commissioner wouldn’t have demanded you partner with me. You didn’t know I was coming, and I had no idea who I’d be partnered with. I don’t know how it is here, but my experience with IA at my old precinct says they’d be on your ass if you had killed your partner."

Jim let a hint of smile show on his face. "Yeah, same here. They still haven’t apologized."

Sara chuckled. "You know they never will."

"You have any idea why the commissioner’s interested in you?"

Sara shrugged. "Maybe he got a hold of my training evals?" she said casually, but for a moment, Jim heard a trace of fear in her voice. _What was she running from?_ he wondered as she continued speaking. "I can’t imagine you get too many cops from New York wanting to come to Cascade."

"Not usually, no," Jim acknowledged. _Whatever she’s afraid of, I’d best give her time to trust me more._

She glanced at the clock on the computer. "So, partner, any chance we can cut out of here early and get some dinner, or are we tied to the clock? My stomach’s reminding me lunch was a long time ago."

Jim looked at the time, then at the pile of work they had to do between them. He handed her a case file. "Take a look at that report and see if I’ve missed anything. I’ll go let Sandburg know we’re headed out." At her inquiring look, Jim explained, "We carpooled. He lives in the same neighborhood as me."

Sara nodded her consent and opened the file. As she’d discovered throughout the day, Jim’s case notes were very thorough; the report just needed to be signed and turned in for further processing. It didn’t take long for Jim to return with Blair in tow.

"So where are you living?" Jim asked.

"An apartment complex on Whitehorse Street," Sara said. "Near Miller Pond. I’m still getting used to the neighborhoods here."

"Good choice for being near the precinct," Jim complimented her. "We’re over on the north side of the city, near the harbor. You have a preference in food?"

"Please tell me there’s good Chinese takeout here."

Blair chuckled, apparently willing to forgive her for her earlier faux pas. "Not where you are, unfortunately. That neighborhood’s mostly apartments and teriyaki joints." He looked at Jim. "Golden Palace?"

"Only if you promise me you won’t order that stinky tofu thing again," Jim said warningly.

Blair just grinned. "It was worth your reaction."

Sara made a face. "I know that dish. That’s the foulest thing I’ve ever smelled." She eyed the two men, considering. "You must be good friends if you’re still talking to each other after a stunt like that."

"Hey, it’s not as bad as Limburger cheese," Blair countered as they made their way out of the bullpen.

"Why anyone would want to eat something fermented with the same bacterium that’s found in human body odor is beyond me," Jim shot back.

Sara stared at him. "I so do not want to know why you even know that," she remarked.

Jim jerked a thumb at Blair. "Just wait. He’ll have you know stuff you didn’t even know existed."

"Hey, I’m from New York, remember?" Sara reminded him. "I’m used to weird."

****

"The hell?" Stunned, Blair stared at his laptop’s screen at the Internet news search results. Dinner had gone surprisingly well, as the trio had gotten to know each other better, but both men had found her guarded about talking about her past and all too willing to get to know the city – and its sports scene -- better. Now Blair sat in his living room as Jim waited to see what he’d found out to back Sara’s story.

"Something wrong?"

"Only in the sense that it’s amazing she’s alive, yeah. In November 2000, she apparently survived a massive shootout at the Rialto Theatre; her partner was killed but she took down half a dozen suspected mobsters with ties to Tommy Gallo. Five months later, she’s stabbed in the back by Kenneth Irons – and survives that, too." Blair pointed to an article. "Problem is, from the way I’m reading this she wasn’t considered a hero for doing any of it." He tabbed his browser. "No surprise – Vorschlag Industries – that’s Irons’ company – owned the media out there."

Jim leaned over his shoulder to see the screen. "’NYPD Officer Under Investigation’," he read. "’Sara Pezzini, the NYPD homicide detective who charged billionaire Kenneth Irons with attempted murder, was under administrative suspension at the time of the arrest, sources close to the NYPD state.’ What the hell? She almost gets killed and it doesn’t count because she was suspended?"

"Guess not, when you’re owned by the guy who tried to kill a cop," Blair noted dryly. "Isn’t administrative suspension just a formality, in most cases?"

Jim nodded. "She probably fired her gun in the line of duty or mouthed off to her captain when she shouldn’t have. Girl’s got a temper if she thinks you’ve insulted her."

"I noticed that at dinner," Blair said with a wry grin. "Whatever her suspension was about, it had to be cleared up if she was able to work for the CPD."

"Maybe that’s why the commissioner insisted on partnering her with me," Jim noted. "Must think I’m a calming influence on people."

"You? Since when?" Blair snorted. "Clearly, the commissioner doesn’t know you that well and hasn’t been paying attention to me. Guess I have to go and convince him again."

"You do that, Chief. You okay with the project he’s given you?"

Blair shrugged. "Like I said at dinner, it’s an ‘are we serving our international population’s needs’ research study. Means I have to go down to the International District, talk to the precinct captain there, do some interviews, and see what’s what. Sara’s suggestion I talk with the church and synagogue leaders makes sense, too."

"She had a good point – if they’re holding services in more than one language, they might also know where the spread of the communities are. Much as the tourists like to think, not everyone who might be considered ‘international’ lives in one single district."

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I know." He sighed. "A couple of years ago, I would’ve had no problem knowing just who to talk to – I would’ve had a student, or a fellow TA, or somebody who knew somebody through the U."

"Who says you don’t?" Jim prodded. "C’mon, Sandburg, weren’t you the one who kept reminding me six degrees, man, six degrees of separation, and it wouldn’t be long before you could tie yourself to Kevin freaking Bacon himself."

As intended, Blair chuckled. "Yeah, well, through Naomi? Probably. You? Not so much. Not since I—"

Jim’s glare cut off the rest of that sentence. "You have more friends than you know, Chief, and those that matter have stuck around. Hell, even enemies have information to trade if you know how to deal. Sheez, you’re acting like they barred you from the precinct." 

"But—"

"No. Rafe needs a partner more than I do; he’s the one flying solo. I’ve been expecting this ever since they started hassling you when you stopped being an unpaid civilian consultant and became an official part of the PD."

Blair looked surprised. "You have?"

Jim shrugged. "Well, maybe not this specifically, but something was bound to come up. You think I haven’t heard the things people say about us?"

Blair sighed. "Yeah, well, I thought maybe after all this time, they’d stop talking."

"So you prove them wrong, again, and wow the commissioner." Jim shrugged. "Either way, Chief, you’re still my partner."

Satisfied he’d kept his friend from sliding into insecurity, Jim went to let himself out of Blair’s condo. At the door, Jim waited a moment, sensing his friend wanted to say more. "Something else on your mind?"

"I like her, Jim. I just wish I could remember what that bracelet she wears reminds me of." He gave Jim a weary smile. "Man, my brain is so full of cop stuff it’s overwriting the anthro stuff I used to know."

"Yeah, well, what you manage to store in your brain is more than most people."

"I keep telling you, Jim, when you grow up wondering if you’ll ever see that one book again you learn to memorize a hell of a lot."

Jim chuckled. "Aren’t you glad you don’t have to live like that anymore? Don’t stay up too late, cruising the Internet trying to find it, Chief, and get some sleep. You've been pushing yourself on that leg of yours – don't give me that look, you know what I'm capable of, so take your pills like a good Guide – and I’ll see you tomorrow."

"You’re just glad you don’t have to hear my laptop fan struggling to cool the motherboard at two AM," Blair shot back with a grin. At his friend’s unrepentant look, Blair laughed. "Good night, Jim. And yes, I will take some medicine before you go into complete Blessed Protector mode and kidnap me to the loft."

"It's not kidnapping, Sandburg, when you know it's happening in advance," Jim countered. He moved quickly, but heard the thud of the throw pillow from the couch on the door he'd shut. He missed having his friend living with him, but knew the separate residence had been a way for Blair to stake his independence. The fact it also quelled any lasting doubts about the nature of their friendship at work also was a benefit, but it hadn’t been a primary one.

"Go home, Jim," his friend called through the door. "Stop lurking in the hallway like I know you are."

Jim chuckled and headed home. The phone was ringing in the loft. He snagged it before the machine could kick in.

"You're not in bed, Sandburg," Jim growled.

"No, but I did take my medicine," Blair said cheerfully. "Good_ night_, Jim. Don't zone trying to listen to me. I do not make a good Guide on muscle relaxants."

Jim grimaced at the reminder, even as he felt a tinge of guilt for even considering extending his hearing the two blocks to where Blair lived. "Wasn't planning on it, Chief. Sleep well."

"You too, Jim."

****

The lights of downtown and the ships on Puget Sound glittered below the park on Cascade’s highest point. A gray wolf stood beside a restless black jaguar that paced the brick retaining wall of the park, clearly trying to figure out where the smell of danger was coming from, even as blood ran down the side of the hill, staining the house-studded path to the sea.

Sara swam out of the dream, hating the way Witchblade-fueled visions always made her feel like she was suffering from a drug-induced hangover. Rolling over, she eyed the alarm clock blearily and wondered if she’d ever sleep past four AM ever again. For a moment, she contemplated trying to go back to sleep, but knew the dream would haunt her. She might as well get up.

She made her way to the small kitchen of her new apartment and made coffee, wondering if she’d done the right thing by coming to Cascade. It had seemed so reasonable in New York: leave the city she’d grown up in, the city she’d loved, the city she’d sworn to protect, because at least in Cascade no one knew the whole story. She’d told Jim some of it – confiding in one’s partner was part of the trade-off, and she knew she’d had to give him some information lest he grow suspicious – but she wasn’t sure if she’d ever tell him the rest. He already had a partner and a best friend. She was just intruding, forced into a situation Ellison hadn’t wanted and Sandburg had clearly hoped to avoid ever having to deal with again.

Besides, if she said anything about her vision, they’d probably dismiss it as a wild dream. Hell, Sandburg would probably want to attach some deep cultural meaning to it – she’d seen the framed degree in anthropology on his desk. The counselor she’d talked to in New York had told her it was natural that she felt such deep grief – losing two partners in less than a year was bound to rattle anyone.

_Natural, hell,_ Sara thought as she poured herself coffee and sipped it tiredly. _What the hell’s natural when I’m bound to a mystical gauntlet? When I chose not to rewind Time itself, for fear that the rewinding would make things even worse, send ripples out in ways I couldn’t perceive?_ _When I would have rather died than choose to live the past over again, knowing the future, even though it meant I might change it? Because of my choice, three men I called friends are dead, never to rise again. I never did tell the counselor about Gabriel; she wouldn’t have understood why I hung out with a teenage entrepreneur._

_But New York had far too many ghosts for me to stay, even if those ghosts weren’t visible to me. Come on, Pezzini, you know this to be truth even if the Witchblade hadn’t suggested you come west to where a jaguar and a wolf guard a city from danger. Snap out of it,_ she told herself. _Go figure out where you can run seven miles without getting run over, and then go into work. You know the ‘blade isn’t always literal and is capable of laughing like it’s played the world’s best joke on you when you try to interpret what it shows you._

"Like a jaguar belongs in the middle of the Pacific Northwest," she muttered aloud, setting her now-empty cup in the sink. "Right."

She didn’t see said jaguar toss his head, clearly insulted at the implication he couldn’t belong right where he was, before he ghosted out of sight.

****

Jim lounged impatiently in the hallway outside Sara’s fifth-floor apartment, well aware from his sensory scan that she’d been out, but oddly unable to pin her location down. It was as if something was blocking his ability to pick her up, which made him uneasy. The only other person he’d ever met who’d been able to block him that well had been another Sentinel, but nothing about her was triggering the same responses as Alex Barnes had.

Still, he had a job to do, and for once, Jim was grateful he’d had an early morning wake-up call. Abruptly, he smelled her sweat, watched her emerge from the stairwell, and saw she’d been out on a run.

"You always pick up your partners?" she asked him as she unlocked her door.

"You weren’t answering your phone," he told her as he followed her into her apartment. "We have a new case near Willows Lake. I figured it would be faster to pick you up than try to give you directions."

"Do we have time for me to shower and change?" she asked.

Jim nodded, abruptly aware he felt unreasonably crammed in the apartment. "As long as you’re not one of those folks who take an hour in the shower alone."

"No, I’m not. I’ll be quick. Make yourself at home. There’s some coffee in the pot still."

Jim didn’t have the heart to tell her the coffee had long since gone stale. He made a mental note to introduce her to better choices in coffee when he saw the can of Maxwell House next to the pot. Although he didn’t consider himself to be a coffee snob, he knew what he liked, and if he was going to have to share it sometime, he preferred it be something he would drink.

Lacking anything better to do, he settled for checking out the apartment. Even for a studio apartment, it was on the small side, and Jim felt positively gigantic in the galley-sized kitchen. Sara hadn’t bothered with much furniture; a double bed occupied the ‘bedroom’ side of the apartment, along with a wooden file cabinet she was using as a nightstand. Her gun holster was slung over the cabinet; Jim assumed, since the cabinet was locked, that she’d put her weapon in the cabinet. The lone chair in the room was home to a leather motorcycle jacket, a pair of well-worn boxing gloves, and a full-face motorcycle helmet. Underneath the chair sat a pair of worn motorcycle boots. The kitchen counter space was taken up by a small TV, the phone, and the coffee pot. The closet had sliding mirrored doors, one of which faced the bathroom, which was just inside the entryway. Jim had to move out of Sara’s way so she could access both the closet and the bathroom.

Something about the minimalist décor bothered Jim. It didn’t seem right that someone who’d been living in one place all her life could have picked up and moved into such a small space without having more stuff. Hell, Blair had had more when he’d moved into his condo after four years of living with Jim – and Jim knew Blair’s old room had had more space than this tiny studio. He wondered if she’d simply stored everything in a rental space somewhere, and decided he’d ask. He was entitled to be nosy, at least for a little while, on the pretext of getting to know his new partner – and just as quickly decided not to ask, remembering how guarded she’d been at dinner the previous night.

She took twenty minutes to shower and change into jeans and a navy blue T-shirt. She strapped on her gun before pulling on the same suede blazer he’d seen her wear yesterday. She slid athletic socks on her feet before putting on her motorcycle boots.

"Ready?" he asked her.

"Lead on."

****

Willows Lake turned out to be in the southwestern edge of the city, just on the fringes of the warehouses that made up most of that section of the city.

"So where’s the lake?" Sara asked some minutes later.

"Drained for this place back in the ‘40’s," Jim told her as he drove up to the wrought iron gates of a cemetery. Police cars already lined the access road. "City ordinance at the time said no bodies could be buried in the city itself, so some enterprising businessman decided to build this one just outside the then-city limits. People had already been dumping bodies here anyway. Some say it’s the city’s largest cemetery, because the records aren’t complete."

"Bet you get a lot of Halloween pranks here," Sara remarked. Suddenly, she had a flash of someone screaming, flayed alive on top of a tombstone, and fought the instinctive shudder.

"Enough to keep this place under surveillance that week," Jim said as he pulled up to the female patrol officer assigned to control the flow of traffic. He rolled down his window and showed his badge to the woman.

"Morning, Detective Ellison," she said after examining his credentials. "Take the road to the left, turn right at the junction, and park anywhere along the road when you get there. Sergeant Halloran’s waiting for you."

"Thank you, Officer." Jim stuck his identification back on his belt and proceeded to the crime scene. Once parked, Sara stripped off her blazer and left it on the passenger seat of the truck.

"Don’t need the dry cleaning bill," she said by way of explanation when he came around to see what she was doing.

Jim nodded his understanding and led the way to the man who waited their arrival.

****

Sergeant Halloran was a heavy-set man who had the look of a career cop a few years from retirement. Jim had met him on other cases and had found him to be a competent, if not particularly ambitious, officer.

"Hey, Ellison," Halloran greeted him now, "where's your partner? Figured he'd be chomping at the bit on this one."

"Commissioner's got him on a special project," Jim said, keeping his voice easy only because he didn’t need the added questions. A part of him wanted to growl at having to work without Blair, but he shoved the urge down. "This is Detective Pezzini, my new partner."

The smell of death was tangible from this distance, and Jim used the social courtesy as a way of preparing himself. He dialed down his senses, abruptly grateful he could, and wished his Guide was with him.

_Oh well, _Jim thought resignedly, _some days you wish you could just be a regular cop, and some days you wish Sandburg would stay out of trouble, remember? Be careful what you wish for._

Halloran sized Sara up and nodded a greeting. "Body's just up the hill," he said with a jerk of his thumb towards the slight rise behind him. "Female. Found by the cemetery caretaker this morning. Hope you haven't had breakfast yet."

"You know anything else?" Sara asked him, ignoring the suggestion.

"Know I'm not going back up that hill," Halloran said steadily. He nodded in the direction of the front entrance. "My partner's at the gate."

Sara looked at Jim, her expression clearly conveying her contempt of Halloran's lack of cooperation. "Anytime you're ready."

In unison, they moved up the hill to the crime scene, which had already been staked out; the crime scene photographers and techs were at work. The victim's face was clearly identifiable on top of the grave, her once-pretty Chinese features contorted in a permanent grimace of pain. Everything below her collarbone was a mass of flayed gore, though oddly her legs had been spared. A dragon tattoo curled up her left leg. She was naked.

Jim viewed the scene as dispassionately as he could, but he wasn't a machine, and the damage done to the young body was sickening. Even if Blair had been there to Guide him, Jim didn't dare widen his senses to take in any more of the gruesome sight. He'd seen a lot of death, but this definitely ranked as one of the worst. This was one for the forensic techs; if there was any more evidence to be had, it would have to be collected in a methodical, could-stand-up-in-court manner.

Still, he risked extending his senses a bit, hoping he could at least direct the techs to something they might have overlooked. The tattoo didn't look new, and when Jim zeroed his sight on it, he saw the fading of the ink, indicating it had been done some time before and hadn't been retouched. There were bits of something he didn't quite recognize in the cuts. He felt the edge of the zone coming on and hastily dialed his sight back.

He shot his new partner a glance, and saw she stood stiffly. For a moment, he thought he saw a female medieval knight instead of Sara.

"Look like anything familiar?" he asked her. For the most part, she was calm, her experience showing through. The careful breathing she was doing said she was coping with the sight and smell like a veteran.

"Cat o'nine tails would be my first guess," Pezzini said after a moment’s further study of the corpse, sounding as disgusted as she felt. "Had a case like this a few years ago, but the vic was a prostitute and the killer was the john who’d hired her." She shrugged. "She'd been into pain, but he went too far. Not this far, though. That one just panicked, left the vic in the hotel room."

"So now we've got her laid on top of someone's grave," Jim observed. He pulled out a notebook from a pocket and wrote down the name on the worn headstone before he slipped on a pair of gloves he retrieved from the pocket of his blazer, and knelt carefully next to the body. He traced the pattern of the tattoo up to where the head would've been, noting the precision of the cut.

"Head of the dragon's been cut out, not flayed," he told Pezzini, who nodded. "Probably with a surgical knife."

"He eats the dragon."

The flash of the medieval knight came to him again, and he rose to his feet jerkily, not liking the way she kept fading on him and becoming something else, or the implications of her statement. "What the hell are you, Pezzini?" he growled as he stripped off the gloves and grabbed her right arm.

"Just a cop," she answered him steadily, but her eyes were wide, her heart was racing, and she smelled of fear.

"I don't buy that," he growled.

She stared at him. He could see the moment she decided to let him in a little. "I see things other people don't," she said finally.

"How?" He knew she wasn't telling him the whole truth – she was breathing a little too fast, her skin was too warm under his hand, and he could swear he felt heat from the stone of her bracelet under his forearm. There were other clues he was picking up from years of interrogating suspects, but he let that awareness slide into the whole rather than focus on the individual components.

She started to shrug, but some instinct made him turn her right forearm over. The ends of the bracelet poked into the underside of her wrist in opposing directions, but the points dug into her skin. The scars were old and healed over, as if the metal had bonded with her skin a long time ago. The metal suddenly smelled ancient, like the armor in a museum, and felt alive under his touch, as if he was touching her rather than metal.

"Is it this?" he asked her quietly, somehow knowing it was the answer even before he heard his jaguar growl warningly. He looked up and into her eyes.

She shuddered and seemed ready to sag into his arms. "Can we talk about this later?" she pleaded quietly, visibly willing strength into her stance. "Pretend like I've just told you I’m psychic and you act like you're not used to weird?"

Jim laughed softly, but there was no humor in his laugh. "You _are_ new to Cascade, aren't you?" He let go of her arm, but pinned her with his gaze. "We _will_ talk about this later, _partner_, but if you have any ideas who this cannibal is, feel free to tell me."

Sara stared at the corpse, clearly trying to see something. After a few minutes, she shook her head impatiently. "He didn't leave any obvious traces here. We'll have to wait for DNA." She frowned. "Shouldn’t this be a straight Homicide case?"

"Location makes it a major crime," Jim told her, grateful for the change of subject. "We’ve had a problem with punks using it for pseudo-Satanic rituals, mostly dead animals." He studied her. "You really think we're dealing with a cannibal?"

"I see him eating," she said flatly. "And before you ask, I don’t see much of his face."

Jim winced. Not for anything did he want that sort of vision in his head, and now that she'd said it, he knew he was going to have to figure out a way to get rid of the image it conjured. "You going to be okay this morning?"

She drew in a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah. Not the worst homicide I've seen."

"Oh? What was the worst?"

Sounding grateful for the normalcy he was offering, Sara said, "Guy went nuts and killed his family with a chainsaw. He had seven kids. Youngest was seven months old."

"Wait, I think I know the punch line to this one. He was the seventh son?"

Sara shot him a cop's grin, matching the macabre humor they were using to deal with the horror of the crime scene. "Sixth, actually. He claimed he was just trying to make sure there wasn't a seventh."

Jim shook his head. "That almost made sense. If we're done here, I'll tell the techs to be careful when they move the body, so we don't lose anything."

Sara nodded. "I'll go talk to Halloran, see if he's talked to the caretaker. Meet you at the truck in ten minutes? If you know where to get a vegetarian breakfast that's halfway edible, I'll tell you what I've found out."

Jim looked at her, aware they were going to discuss more than the case. "Yeah, I do." He wasn’t surprised by the request for something vegetarian; after what they’d just seen, he wasn’t sure he could eat meat right now, either.

Twenty minutes later, they were headed towards the restaurant when Jim’s cell phone rang. Focused on getting through a particularly winding stretch of interstate filled with traffic, Jim asked, "Would you answer that?"

Sara grabbed the phone from where it rested in the cup holder between the front seats and noted the caller ID code had been blocked. Depressing the talk button, she answered, "Detective Ellison’s phone, this is Pezzini."

"Pezzini, it’s Captain Banks. I need you and Ellison to go to Sea-Seton, now. There’s been another murder."

"Sea-Seton, sir?"

"Ellison should know where it is; he grew up here," Banks told her. "Are you finished with Willow Lakes?"

"We were just headed back to the station," Sara lied, glancing at Jim and hoping he wouldn’t mind the white lie. "We’re on –"

"—I-5, south of the stadium –" Jim told her.

"I-5, south of the stadium," she repeated dutifully. She covered the mouthpiece. "Another murder at Sea-Seton, Banks wants us there."

"Tell him we’re stuck in the backup from hell, but we’ll be there as soon as we can."

Sara repeated the information before agreeing to meet the captain at the location. She disconnected the phone, then put it back in the cup holder before asking, "No siren or lights in this truck?"

Jim shook his head. "No. This truck's mine, and the request to get a portable siren hasn’t been approved yet. The last one I had was busted in the same wreck that took my old truck. Sandburg's got a department vehicle, so it's usually not a problem."

Sara nodded. "Yeah, that's how my partner and I did it in New York. Anywhere we needed to go on the job, he usually drove." She paused, forcing the grief down at the memory. "What’s Sea-Seton?"

"Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton Catholic Church," Jim explained. "Not quite the oldest church in the city, but home to the biggest parochial school."

"Would classes be over yet for the summer?"

"Not yet," Jim said grimly, and took the next available left.

Sara quickly got lost as Jim used a native’s knowledge of the sprawling city to cut through to Sea-Seton, which apparently was on the northeast side of the city, in a very densely packed neighborhood. The church property took up a city block. Parking was limited to one side of the street, and Jim was forced to park his truck four blocks over as every available spot seemed to be taken.

To her surprise, Jim turned to her before they got out of the truck. "Pezzini? What are you seeing in your head right now?" He clasped her left arm, feeling her pulse. "Breathe, damn it."

She stared at him, wondering how the hell he’d guessed that. She took a deep breath and willed the images to subside. "Flashes of how he did it, not enough to identify where or who he is – all I see are his hands; he's wearing gloves and I can't tell a damn thing. Who our victim is. I won’t get the Technicolor until we’re right on top of the victim, and even then it’s not the whole picture. This one’s worse than Willow Lakes." Her eyes widened as she abruptly saw the jaguar leap gracefully on top of the hood of the truck. The truck didn't shake, but Sara felt the weight shift as though it had. "Um, Ellison? Why is there a jaguar on the hood of the truck?"

Jim smiled enigmatically. "Pezzini, you’re seeing things. Take another deep breath and let it out for me."

The jaguar’s eyes were vividly blue – the same color as Jim’s – and the animal stared at her a long moment before turning his gaze on Jim, who acknowledged him with the barest hint of a nod. Then the jaguar leaped off the hood and was gone.

Sara let go of the breath she hadn’t been realizing she’d been holding.

"Ready?"

Not trusting her voice, Sara nodded. In the back of her head, the noise she’d come to associate as being the sentience of the Witchblade was silent and sulking, as if it had been chided by something. That, Sara thought, was an odd sensation; she’d managed to chide it a time or two into obeying her commands, but it had never felt like this. Shaking off the odd feeling, she climbed out of the truck.

The captain stood talking with a nun. The Witchblade snarled in the back of Sara’s mind as it flashed back to being trapped in the catacombs below the Vatican, and she automatically rubbed her wrist, silently reminding the semi-sentient gauntlet that had happened centuries ago.

"You okay?" Jim asked her, noticing her movement.

She forced a smile to her lips. "Hurts sometimes," she told him, which wasn’t quite a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

He seemed to accept that. "Looks like it would," he said evenly as they approached the captain and the nun. Captain Banks quickly made the introductions. The nun turned out to be Sister Manuella, the school’s principal. She hadn’t been the one to discover the body; the school’s gym teacher had.

Sister Manuella led the way to the gym, chattering in a way that told both Sara and Jim she was nervous in the whole "death happens to other people in other places" sort of way. Someone had hung a sign on the gym door that said "All PE classes cancelled today – go to study hall". A patrol officer had been stationed at the door.

Sara saw the crime scene before she stepped through the door, in one vicious flash that blasted her like the flash of an unexpected photograph. She staggered, and Jim caught her, murmuring, "Now I can see why you don’t wear heels, Pezzini," and Sara realized Sister Manuella was staring at her in concern.

"Sorry, I’m a little clumsy sometimes," Sara said, gratefully picking up the story Jim was providing her.

The nun smiled. "We all have those days, don’t we?" She opened the door to the gym. "I left Kevin Randall – he’s the PE teacher – in my office talking with the officer who responded first. If you need me, I will be there."

"Thank you, Sister," Jim said.

Sister Manuella moved out of the way and the detectives stepped into the gym. The door shut behind them, helped along by the uniform stationed there.

"You say when," Jim invited Sara.

"I already saw it," she said with a grim sigh, "might as well compare the picture in my head with the real thing. Back left corner, by the basketball rack."

Jim stared across the regulation size basketball court, then swore at the graffiti he saw painted on the wall and part of the body. He pulled back his vision, abruptly aware he’d extended it automatically to compensate for the distance and the killer’s choice of paint. "Listen, Pezzini, if I start acting like I’m not responding to you, call Sandburg. Or get Simon since he’s here, but Sandburg’s better."

She turned to him, not understanding what he was saying.

"Just trust me," Jim told her firmly. "Number’s on my phone."

Sara eyed him warily, but decided since he hadn’t freaked about anything she’d revealed, he deserved the benefit of the doubt. "All right. "

They strode across the floor. Old habits had them both walking on the perimeter of the court, mindful of the fact they weren’t wearing gym shoes.

The body lay on half-draped on the floor, half against the wall. The killer had spray painted "Be ware the dragon’s blade" on the corpse using a black-light paint; Sara could read it thanks to the Witchblade. This time, the victim was a Caucasian male, but like the one in the cemetery, he’d been whipped as well. His dragon tattoo had apparently wrapped around his arm and down his stomach. Even knowing where the head of the dragon would’ve been, Sara wasn’t prepared for the actual sight of the missing penis. The Witchblade hadn’t seen fit to show her that particular part of the crime – just the man’s screams and the fountain of blood.

"Where’s the blood spray?" Jim asked her. "Perp’s not killing his victims here."

"Obviously, somewhere he can clean up," Sara said dryly. "Where no one would notice if someone screamed."

"And what the hell does ‘beware the dragon’s blade’ mean?" Jim muttered, half to himself, and Sara startled, wondering how the hell he was able to read what wasn’t visible under ordinary light. It didn’t escape Sara’s notice that Jim was carefully not looking at the lower half of the corpse. She couldn’t blame him; the lacerated top half was enough. Suddenly, Sara stiffened, remembering that one of the nicknames for the Witchblade was the ‘dragon’s blade.’

"Tell the uniform to get the techs in here, will you? And have them check the victim’s fingernails, on both this guy and the one from this morning. If he used the same whip, the wounds will have the first victim's DNA in them, too."

_I’m being paranoid again,_ Sara told herself as she went to do as Jim requested. Remembering what she'd seen in her vision, she added a black light and extra Lumisol to the list of requested items. When she came back to Jim, he was staring at something only he could see. Repeated attempts to get him to respond did nothing.

Scared now, Sara dug into Jim's pockets for his cell phone. Hastily, she figured out how to call up the address book in the phone and found Blair's phone number.

"Jim?" Blair asked, without greeting hello.

"No, it's Pezzini," Sara replied. "Look, he's not responding to me. He's just crouched over the corpse, like he was looking at something."

"Damn it. All right, put the phone to his ear. I'm going to try something. If it doesn't work, get Simon. Where are you?"

"Sea-Seton. We got a second murder."

"Second? Oh, crap."

Feeling odd, Sara knelt carefully beside her new partner and, using her right hand, held the phone to Jim's ear. She could feel the Witchblade shift, and swore under her breath. Then she realized if the Witchblade was active, whatever happened here would not be perceived by normal eyes. Reality had a way of shifting around the 'blade, and she silently thanked it for its reaction.

As if the phone was on speaker mode, Sara heard Blair say, "Jim, come on back, come on, you know the drill, just listen to my voice and follow it back. You're freaking Pezzini out, don't do that to your partner, you know better. Come on, I know I'm not there, but you know my voice."

Something made Sara reach out to touch Jim as Blair continued to talk in soothing tones. Jim's reaction wasn't instantaneous – more of a slow, gradual reawakening. The moment she touched Jim, though, Blair's voice seemed to fill her head, and she saw a gray wolf, one leg injured, limping to reach the unmoving jaguar. Time seemed to stand still as she became the amplifier for Blair's voice.

Jim shook off her touch like a big cat emerging from water, and stared at her as he caught sight of the gauntlet. The medieval-looking glove featured talons on the thumb, index, and middle fingers. As he watched, the gauntlet dissolved back into its more innocuous looking bracelet form.

For a moment, Jim looked as though he was going to say something. He met Sara's gaze, and she drew herself up, half-spoiling for some kind of argument just so she wouldn't have to explain anything. Then he cocked his head as if listening to something, and said, "Techs are here. Thanks for calling Sandburg. Can I have my phone back?"

She stared at him for a long moment, then took a careful breath. The smell of death rushed right back into her, as if the Witchblade had held it back, and perhaps it had. Not trusting her voice, she let the phone drop into Jim's waiting hand.

"Yeah, Chief, it worked," Jim said into the receiver. "No, I'm okay. Yes, I'm not lying. Look, we'll talk later." He hung up and tucked the phone back into his pocket.

He looked at Sara carefully. Pride and fear had her straightening up under his gaze. "It's what I thought. The tattoo's not new, probably a few years old. You got anything else off the vic?" he asked her, and she let go of the breath she'd been holding.

_He’s not going to ask_, she thought._ Either he saw nothing – and that’s a man who misses nothing, I know that already – or he’s not rattled by what he saw._

As if in reply, Witchblade flashed a picture of Jim, dressed in fatigues and camouflage paint while holding a primitive bow and arrow in a jungle. Not understanding what the vision meant, or why the Witchblade kept sending her "trust him" impressions, Sara forced her focus on the here and now.

"No. I think we're done here."

He nodded. "Let's check in with Simon, see if he wants us to talk to the witness. Knowing Simon, he's probably already talked to him, but will want us to corroborate the statement."

Sara let herself be led into the routine of police work, even as she wondered when Jim was going to ask questions.

****

More bothered by Sara's call than he was willing to admit aloud, Blair paced his temporary office as best as he could. The only advantage, he thought, with having this temporary assignment was that he didn't have to share the space with anyone else. With a frustrated sigh, Blair sat back down in his chair. Guiding Jim over the phone was something they'd tested at Simon's suggestion, but it had never been this successful.

_Why was I so sure it would work this time?_ Blair asked himself. He rubbed his face tiredly. There were days when he thought being Guide to a Sentinel wasn't what he'd signed up for when he'd gone looking for someone with all five enhanced senses to study for his graduate dissertation. He wouldn't trade Jim's friendship or the secrets they kept for his life now, but Sir Richard Burton hadn't exactly been the most prolific of writers on the subject of what a Guide did. Blair had been making it up as he went along, and hoping he'd be right more often than wrong.

Still, the trial-and-error method meant Blair felt compelled to analyze every single situation where what he did worked.

_What was different this time? Right, Pezzini was there. Pezzini wears that really weird bracelet. Where have you seen that before?_

Almost unaware of his actions, Blair opened a browser window on his computer. He stared at it a moment before reaching for the phone and dialing a number from memory.

"Olmstead Museum of Natural History and Culture at Rainier University, this is Emma, how may I direct your call?" a pleasant voice greeted crisply.

"Good morning, Emma. Is Judy Younger available?"

"She's on another line at the moment. Would you like to hold or be transferred to her voicemail?"

"I'll hold, thanks. Please let her know it's Blair calling."

"One moment, please hold."

Blair listened to the museum's idea of Muzak – a blend of whale sounds over Native American music that was interrupted by ads promoting the museum. He had the whole spiel repeated twice before Judy came on the line, breathless.

"Blair! Please tell me you're calling for a date. I so need a date. If I have to go to another fund-raiser alone, you're coming with me and don't try to tell me you have a stakeout."

Blair laughed. "I thought you were seeing Joe Rushinger," he told her.

"Joe can't stop talking about polar bears. Who wants to hear about the mating habits of polar bears and the decline of the ice caps all the time? Even during sex?" She sighed. "To be fair, you did warn me."

"Yeah, well, you didn't room with the man when you were seventeen," Blair pointed out logically. "I'm sure you thought maybe he'd grown out of that obsession, Judy."

"Yeah, I did." She sighed again. "So, you're calling during business hours, so you must be calling with a work question, not a personal one. What's up?"

"Commissioner wants a study done on strengthening the community policing ties with the international community. Know who might be the best person to help me?"  

"That would be David Cho," she said immediately. "He's the chair of Asian Studies at the U. I'll get him to call you. I'll warn you now, he's none too fond of cops."

"So I'll wear my Dr. Sandburg hat, no problem," Blair said easily.

"You know, you never said how you managed to get the U to make such a public apology about the way they treated you."

"They were wrong," Blair said, passionately. He hadn't wanted to push the issue, wanting nothing more than to escape into a new life. It had been Taggert who'd reluctantly pointed out to Jim that if Blair did become a cop, he'd have his credibility questioned by every defense attorney and judge he ever testified in front of. Jim had gotten mad, then had gotten even, all without telling Blair what he was up to until it was over. He'd sat down with his father and, after several heated discussions, they'd formed a plan.

When it was all over, the university had issued a formal apology – no doubt pressured by the possibility that several of their largest supporters, the Ellison family included, would withdraw funding – and the then-police commissioner had announced the creation of the special consultant position in a public address, throwing the CPD's support behind Blair. Blair had been shocked, but not nearly as shocked as he'd been when Jim had apologized for reacting to the dissertation's reveal like a soldier in the midst of post-traumatic stress, instead of the man who called Blair his best friend.

Judy had been among the handful of friends who'd known something was up with Blair, but not what. They'd dated casually off and on for years. Even so, Blair kept his secrets from her.

"The U has been wrong before, but you must've dug up some serious dirt to get them to apologize so publicly."

Blair chuckled. "Speaking of digging, do you remember the traveling medieval weapons exhibit you had six months ago?"

"Featuring some of the weirdest pieces of armor anyone's ever seen?" Judy asked. She was the coordinator of the traveling exhibits at the museum. "Please tell me it's not related to some crime."

Blair laughed again; relieved he didn't have to tell her that. "Not that I'm aware of, no. Wasn't there also a representative selection of jewelry worn by ladies of the court that went with the exhibit?"

"Yeah, we even had a custom jeweler rent space in the gift shop to sell reproduction pieces. Made a nice profit for the museum, even after her commission. Do you want her number?"

"Maybe. Weren't you drooling over one bracelet in the collection? Wanted me to buy it for you now that I wasn't a TA anymore?"

"Huge carnelian stone, beautiful scrollwork, yeah, I won't forget that one. Too bad it wasn't an original piece."

"Oh?"

"The guy I spoke to about the collection said the original went missing from the Midtown Museum in New York when it was damaged by gunfire. Police were apparently chasing a suspect through the museum and when they were finally able to clean up all the pieces, the original bracelet was gone. It was on loan to the collection from Kenneth Irons; he fortunately had a reproduction he was willing to provide, but the reproduction isn't nearly as valuable as the original, even though it supposedly once belonged to a minor noble. Strangely, Irons didn't seem upset that the original went missing."

Blair's heart raced as he digested the words. "Who's Kenneth Irons?" he asked, playing dumb.

"Big art collector, apparently," Judy said, and Blair could see her waving her hand at the description. "His entire collection was sold off at auction when he died. Had some bizarre stuff in it. We tried to bid on a few things, but we lost out to the east coast museums."

"Really? Too bad," Blair told her as he picked up a pen and reached for the pad he’d been using to scribble notes. "Listen, that helps a lot. You wouldn’t happen to have the number of your contact at the Midtown Museum?"

"Of course. Hang on, I have his card somewhere." He heard the sounds of Judy rummaging in a desk drawer before she declared, "Ah ha! Vincent d’Mezzo, Assistant Curator of Arts. Ready for that number?"

"Sure." He wrote it down, then checked it as she repeated the number for him. "Thanks, Judy. Still need a date?"

Judy chuckled. "I'll call you, I swear."

"Uh huh," Blair said, knowingly. Judy was married to her job; she just hadn't figured that out yet, and hadn't listened when Blair had tried to tell her that. "Just promise you'll stop dating the people I shared a house with when I was going for my bachelor's."

"Blair, how many more people were living in that crazy house?"

He laughed. "We started out with four, wound up with twelve over the three years I lived there," he told her. "Thirteen if you count Alonzo Martinez, but he was only there for three months before we realized he was a bum who never paid rent and he was crazy besides. And if helps, Ginnie won't touch straight women."

Judy groaned. "That still means I've dated you and four – no, five, because Tracy thought I was gay, and it was as much of a date as any other -- of your ex-housemates," she said. "And you promised you'd get me a list, remember?"

"Judy, I emailed you that list two years ago," he told her. "Want me to send it to you again?"

Judy groaned. "Yes. And you take care of yourself out there, okay?"

"You too, and thanks, Judy." They said their goodbyes and Blair hung up the phone, staring at nothing as he thought through what he'd been told. One thing was clear: he had to do more research.

Then his phone rang and he put his musings aside as he focused on the project he'd been assigned to do.

*****

It was past lunch by the time Jim and Sara got back to the station. Having just seen two grisly murders, neither had been very hungry, and even the promised vegetarian restaurant held little appeal. They'd taken the time to check out a theory about the sale of the cat o'nine tails, but the Love Rainbow, the only store in Cascade that carried such items, had discontinued selling cat o'nine tails six months before, and the clerk on duty couldn't access any purchase information since she wasn’t the manager.

By the time they got back to the station, the photographs from the first crime scene had been uploaded to the computer network and its location transmitted to Jim and Sara's email.

"Any ideas on where to start with this?" Jim asked.

"Well, how many people are walking around with such complete dragon tattoos?" Sara countered. "And what are the chances of someone picking out two people with that same sort of tattoo?"

Jim sighed. "So we start with the tattoo parlors. But that's possibly a lot of people – until we know who the victims are, we can't know if they got their tattoos here or Singapore . It'll be a long shot, but maybe we'll get lucky – maybe our victims had their ink retouched or had some new color added in."

"Yeah, but none of the tattoos looked that recent," she argued. "How much do you want to bet if that was the case, it's the part our killer ate?"

Jim grimaced. "Get a list of the tattoo parlors together and we'll start calling them."

Sara nodded as she shoved a frustrated hand through her hair. "Missing persons database search, and list of Cascade's tattoo parlors, here we go," she said, keying in the information request into the computer. They were using Jim's workstation, largely because her access to certain databases hadn't yet been activated, and wouldn't for another two days.

"Why don't you see if you can get anywhere on the Marsden case," Jim suggested, knowing it was going to take a while to slog through the database. "I'll see if I can lean on Forensics to get us some information we can use, and see if the name of that grave on the first case ties into something."

Sara nodded, accepting the case file Jim handed her. Right now, all they could do was to wait for further clues; they were operating without a lot of information. "What time did that clerk at the Love Rainbow say the manager would be in?"

"6," Jim told her. "She said they do more business at night."

"Typical," Sara agreed, and moved to her desk.

*****

"Oh, hey, sorry, if you guys are working, I’ll just wander back to my place," Blair said sheepishly as he realized Sara and Jim had the case notes spread across the dining table and parts of the living room furniture. "I just didn’t feel like eating alone again, especially after the PT I had today. Ow."

"You know you’re welcome here anytime," Jim reminded him. "It’s why I didn’t ask for the key back. How's the leg?"

"If I keep healing at the rate I'm going, I'll be out of this walking cast in another two weeks or so."

"That's good to hear, Chief." Jim looked relieved at the news.

Blair grinned, but shot Sara a look. She seemed absorbed by the crime scene photographs.

"Hey, Pez, you there?" Jim asked, touching her arm.

She jerked back, reacting in much the same manner as Jim did coming out of a zone. "Oh, huh?" she said absently, then looked up. "Oh. I’ll just gather up my notes and get out of here."

Jim looked at her. "You in a hurry to go somewhere?" he asked her as she started to rise to her feet. "I thought the deal was, we’d order takeout from the Thai place in Blair’s building, go over the notes, see if we can’t break this two-week-long block we’re having on this, before Simon makes us put it on the back burner." He gestured to Blair. "He's pretty good at seeing things in a different way."

"Look, I know you guys probably haven’t been spending a lot of time together. I’m—"

"Not intruding," Jim said firmly. "And it’s time we took a break from this anyway, if you don't want to work on it some more right now." To Blair, he said, "Stay put, I know what you like. Pez, do you have a preference?"

"Beef pad Thai, and I like it spicy."

"Not if you want me to sneeze the rest of the night," Jim returned as he picked up his phone to call in the order.

Sara looked surprised, but wary. "Allergies?"

Blair rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

"Then don’t bother turning up the heat," Sara returned. "I don’t deal well with my partner having to go to the hospital." She crossed her arms, as if she could hold back the memories her words evoked.

"Who does?" Blair countered as he took a seat on the loveseat as Jim moved to a corner of the room to place the food order.

"How’s the research project for the commissioner going?" Her voice was friendly enough, but her eyes were on the door.

"I’m about halfway through it," Blair told her quietly, even as he wondered how much of her question was polite courtesy. "Turns out the commissioner had a right to be worried – some of the people I’ve spoken to say the police aren’t doing enough to understand their needs. Did you know there’s a huge group of Ethiopian refugees in Cascade, and many of them don’t speak English?"

"Let me guess: no translation service on speed dial," Sara guessed, "and if there is one, it’s not someone who has access to all of the languages you need in this city."

"Precisely," Blair nodded. "The last time anyone did a survey on the international community here in Cascade, they focused only on the Asian subgroups. So now I have all this data, and I have to figure out a way to tell the commissioner we need better informed community policing and everything that goes with that – people, equipment, money, that sort of thing."

"Sounds like this isn’t the first time you’ve had to do something like this," Sara observed. Blair decided he didn’t like the way she still held herself, as if she was expecting a hammer to fall any minute.

He grinned. "Anthro majors joke that grant writing is a second career, should we fail as anthropologists. Very little gets funded in the field without having to plead for money from someone."

"Do you miss that kind of work?"

"Not more than I want to stop people who do this sort of thing," Blair said, gesturing to the case files. "So what’s the murder weapon?"

"Cat o’nine tails, an overdose of anesthetic, and blood loss," Jim said, hanging up his phone.

"Gross," Blair decided after a moment. "The Love Rainbow wasn’t much help, I take it."

"No, they don’t accept returns after fifteen days, so they have no reason to keep the data beyond that, even if they still sold cat o’nine tails, which they don’t anymore," Sara offered. "And if you tell me where to pick up the food, I’ll go get it." She held up a hand as Jim started to refuse. "I need to stretch – my back locks up if I sit too long."

Blair looked at her, then at Jim, who looked as though he was still going to protest. "Go out the front doors, turn right, and head straight up the street. Name of the place is Thai Express, and it’s in the Sutton Place building – you’ll see the Sutton Place sign before you see the restaurant."

Sara rose, nodding her thanks to Blair, and headed out of the loft. Once the door was shut behind her, Blair turned to Jim. "Something you want to tell me?" Blair asked.

Jim blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Been a while since you took your work home. You sure you can do without me?" Blair teased.

Jim shot him a glare without much heat. "It’s not the same, Chief, and you know it. So why did you maneuver her out of here?"

"Aside from the fact she looked like she was going to find some excuse to rabbit? I did some checking. You know that bracelet she wears? The original went missing from the Midtown Museum in New York three years ago."

Jim stared at him, anger flashing across his face. "She’s not a thief," he bit off. "Have you looked at what wearing that thing did to her?"

Now it was Blair’s turn to stare. "What the hell do you mean?"

"It’s fused to her – and it doesn’t beep when she goes through a metal detector, either. We walked through the ones in the lobby of the precinct and the scanning tech didn’t even notice she hadn’t taken it off." Jim’s lips thinned into an angry line. "She gets visions of what happened at the crime scenes – in detail. She saw my jaguar, too. I asked her if she was psychic before she picked up the bracelet and she said no."

"Oh, hell." If Blair hadn’t already been sitting down, he would have sunk into the nearest couch. As it was, he rubbed his face tiredly, wishing he hadn’t pursued this line of research. "The bracelet supposedly once belonged to Joan of Arc. It was on loan to the Midtown Museum from a private collection owned by Kenneth Irons. When it went missing, it was after the museum had been shot to hell in an attempt by a cop to chase after a suspect. According to the exhibit coordinator at the Midtown Museum I spoke to, Irons not only did not want to report it as stolen, but offered a replica he’d had acquired."

"Sorry, Sandburg, I just can’t see Pezzini helping herself to a piece of jewelry like that – she wears gold stud earrings and a watch that looks like it might’ve belonged to her father."

"Maybe she didn’t have any choice in the matter," Blair insisted. "Look, here’s the really odd thing. The guy I spoke to said he’d been told there was a legend about the bracelet, and that’s why it was always displayed with a single gauntlet clasping a sword. The claim was that the bracelet could turn into the gauntlet, if the right person wore it."

"Irons tried to kill Pezzini," Jim said, his tone indicating his preference for facts. "Who knows what kind of insanity he was full of? What I do know is this: even with what she’s seeing in the visions she’s getting, and what I’ve been able to pick up, we can’t find who killed two people who just had the bad fortune to have full-body dragon tattoos. Now you’re here, maybe you can give us what we’re not seeing."

Years of a friendship that had been sometimes marred by deep distrust had taught Blair the value of knowing when not to push Jim. "You haven’t been pushing your senses, have you?"

"Some," Jim hedged. At the glare he received, he said, "Look, you know I can pull myself out of most of the zones. It’s just easier and faster if you’re there to help me." He paused. "I smell the food."

Blair looked at him. "But not her?"

Jim reluctantly admitted, "Whatever that bracelet is, it won’t let me sense her until she’s almost right in front of me."

"Some odd psychic protection?" Blair guessed, his mind spinning with possibilities.

"Maybe." He moved to open the door just as Sara was trying to juggle the bags to knock.

"You’re good, Ellison," she said admiringly.

"Nah," he told her easily as he let her brush past him and step inside, "just know how long it takes to get from the Thai place to here, and you walk almost as fast as I do."

She raised an eyebrow at that, as if she knew he was hiding something. "You must eat there a lot, Ellison," she said as she waited as he hastily transferred the paperwork on the dining table to the coffee table. "They were disappointed when I told them I wasn’t your new girlfriend." She set the bags of food down on the space he’d cleared and began distributing the containers.

"What did you tell them?" Jim asked, curious.

"Said if I was your girlfriend, you’d be eating out a lot more. I don’t cook. That round tub is steamed rice, by the way." Having identified which container held her pad Thai, she dug into the piles she’d made for a fork, and took a seat at the table. Blair limped over to the table, checked one of the two remaining containers, and took the seat opposite hers, leaving the rest of the table for Jim.

"Explains the size of your kitchen," Jim said as he chose the end of the table as his seat and Blair passed him the remaining container, a set of chopsticks, and the tub of rice. "We could fit your entire apartment into this living room, easy."

"Didn’t see the point in getting something bigger," she said, digging into her food with the determination of someone who very much did not want to talk about the subject.

She stabbed a noodle with her fork and started to eat almost mechanically, casting her eyes on her food.

Over her bent head, Jim and Blair exchanged looks. With a nod, Blair took up the conversational thread.

"Used to be point of pride with me," Blair said casually, "to be able to pack up my entire life in a backpack, maybe a single box at most."

Sara pointedly did not pick up the thread.

Undeterred, Blair went on, "Some of the places my mom and I lived – man, if we’d had more than a backpack between us, we would’ve been cramped indeed. I was never so glad for that one night. Naomi came into my room and told me we had to be very quiet – we were sneaking out, y’see – and if we woke up Todd, we’d have to hell to pay. I didn’t like Todd very much. I was seven, but he kept looking at me like he wanted something from me, especially when I was running around naked  – "

Sara’s head jerked up at that and her right hand reached across the table to grab Blair’s. "You’re lying," she said, low and angry. "You wanted Todd as your father. You told Naomi you wanted to stay. She’s the one who took you out in the middle of the night."

Blair looked down at her hand, now covered by a gauntlet he’d seen only in photographs the Midtown Museum had only been too happy to email to him. The talons scraped his skin, and he didn’t hold back the instinctive hiss of pain they caused. "So I did," he replied, striving for a casual tone but aware from the way Jim had gone still that he wasn’t nearly as calm as he tried to be, "but there’s no way you would know that, because I barely remember that part of my life myself." He paused, then asked, "Does wearing this thing make you paranoid, or were you that way before?"

Slowly, almost as if she had to force herself into it, Sara let go. The gauntlet returned to its more innocuous bracelet form as she let out a slow, careful breath. "It keeps telling me to trust you," she said, almost as if she didn’t want to believe. "Sorry if I scratched you."

"I’ve had worse from a cat," Blair assured her. "So what the hell is that thing, and what are you running from that you took as little as possible with you?"

"I didn’t run." Anger flared, then died as Blair looked at her steadily. Abruptly, she stood and paced away from the table, heading to the empty space between the table and the stairs. "I don’t want to do this," she muttered, half to herself.

"You took away what friends I had," she said accusingly, and both men abruptly realized she meant the bracelet.

At her words, the bracelet shifted form, transforming from a gauntlet to something…else. It shredded Sara’s clothing, leaving her attired in nothing but the skimpiest of outfits – some kind of hybrid of alien and reptilian armor, complete with vine-like tentacles that wrapped around her legs. For a moment, neither man moved, unable to believe what they were seeing or if they were seeing anything at all. Neither was aware they’d gotten to their feet, or that Jim had reached for the gun he’d worn tucked in the small of his back. Caught between knowing Sara was a friend and not understanding what he was seeing, he hadn’t taken off the safety, though he’d aimed it at her.

Blair looked at Jim and shook his head once. "No," he whispered, in a volume meant for a Sentinel’s ears.

"Sandburg, I’m not sure I trust something that can mutate like that, and doesn’t smell human," Jim shot back, in the quietest voice Blair had ever heard him use. It was a Ranger’s voice, the kind that had led covert operations, and Blair understood Jim was both outraged and furious. Blair wasn’t sure how he felt; he only knew he wanted, more than anything, to save her from getting hurt.

Sara turned slowly around, revealing the armor looked like an alien version of a Wonder Woman costume. "It’s not," she answered Jim, sadness in her voice. "It’s metal and magic and more than I understand some days. What I know for sure is this: I was supposed to die three times in three years, and it saved me, and I don’t understand why you can see me like this. Most people don’t."

"Most people don’t walk the spirit paths," Blair said, comprehension abruptly coming to him. "Jim and I have been for a while. Put the gun away, Jim, before it decides you’re a threat."

Slowly, reluctantly, Jim holstered his gun. "What the fuck is it?"

"The Witchblade," Sara answered. As if it liked being named, the armor rippled and became more detailed, winding even more flourishes around Sara’s arms and legs.

Blair stared at her as a long-forgotten piece of lore came to mind. "’Blend iron's edge with the sun of gold, could gold alloyed or admixt be...fired-white and chilled in wine-dark blood, thus is born the thirsty Blade, never dulled.’" At Jim’s sharp glance, Blair explained, "It’s a quote from _Avesta_, the prayer book of the ancient Persian Zorastrians. It talks about a weapon that supposedly existed in ancient Persia, but Vatican scholars questioned that theory – said the design work on the bracelet predated the Persians’ use of iron by a thousand years. A friend of mine was trying to find all the references to ancient, unusual weapons in the old texts, and I ended up helping her since I was poking around in that section of the library anyway."

Sara shrugged, clearly unsurprised by this information. "What the Vatican knows, and is willing to admit to, are two different things," she told Blair.

He grinned. "Yeah, but most people don’t know that."

"How did you –" Jim started to say.

"I didn’t steal it," Sara said bitterly, as though she’d been accused of it. "I tried to return it, but Irons told me it chose me for a reason."

"Chose you?" Jim tried to steel himself against the vulnerability he heard in her voice and saw on her face. She seemed resigned, as though she’d accepted her fate, yet she seemed to draw strength from it.

Sara offered him a lopsided smile. "It has a consciousness, sort of like voices in the back of my head. It told me to come here, that I’d be safe."

"Safe from what?" Jim demanded, not liking the way this was going. He glanced at Blair, who seemed equally uncomfortable.

Sara took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The armor dissolved, leaving her attired in what was left of her clothes. Hastily, Jim grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch. Deliberately, he made himself not look at how nude she was, and wrapped it around her, tugging her unresisting form to a seat at the table. "Aside from public indecency, that is?" he managed to joke, shoving down the desire that flared at seeing her as an attractive woman.

For a moment, it looked as though she wasn’t going to speak.

"Come on, Sara," Blair said, "we can’t help you if we don’t know what we’re up against."

"What if…I don’t want to get you killed?" she asked, grief coating her words. She gestured to her wrist. "I lost my best friend because of this. My next partner died trying to help me. Another friend died, too, and he knew more about the Witchblade than any kid ever had a right to."

"What do you expect us to do, walk away?" Jim scoffed at the idea.

Blair narrowed his gaze on Sara. "Or just sit by while you walk away?"

She stiffened, as though Blair had caught her. "What if I asked?"

"Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on and let us decide?" Jim countered as he pulled up a chair beside her and took her hand. "By the way, does that thing ever turn into a full suit of medieval armor?"

Startled, Sara jerked. The blanket slipped, and she hastily pulled it back up, but not before Jim caught sight of an expanse of breast. "Sometimes." Puzzled, she met his eyes. "Why?"

Blair groaned and sat back down. "You’re the one I’ve been seeing."

"Seeing?"

Jim smiled. "Didn't I tell you? He’s a shaman."

Blair shot Jim a glare, which Jim ignored.

Sara took a shuddering breath. "So is he the jaguar I keep seeing?"

"No, that’s –" Jim started to say.

"– You, but in the spirit world," Sara finished, her eyes suddenly wide as she stared at Jim. "So why can I see you and not – Oh God. A wolf, and both of you looking at me like I’ve brought more trouble than I’m worth." She closed her eyes. "Man, some days this feels like one long acid trip and I’m going to wake up and this movie in my head will stop."

"And if it ever does?" Blair asked quietly, rising to his feet and moving so that he now sat on her other side, flanking her, instinctively wanting to protect her. He ignored the twitch in his leg from the muscle he’d ripped.

She opened her eyes. "Then I’m dead," she said quietly. "The Witchblade chooses its wielders, but it always leaves them remembering what it was like to have that power, gives them flashes of what they're missing. Some of them go insane for wanting it again. I…don't think I could live that way."  

"So tell us what kind of trouble you’re in," Jim invited grimly. "Because if I’m right, the trouble’s already here." He gestured to the case files on the coffee table behind them.

Sara said nothing for a long moment. "Can I borrow a shirt from you? I’ll feel more comfortable if I was dressed."

Nodding, Jim let go of her hand and headed upstairs. He returned with a faded denim shirt and a pair of sweatpants. "Guest room’s through the kitchen," he told her.

She half-smiled at the attempt to restore her modesty. "Thanks." She took the proffered items and headed off to get changed.

"You think she brought the killer with her?" Blair asked Jim while they waited.

"I don’t know," Jim said with a sigh, "but I’m not hungry anymore. Want to give me a hand with these leftovers?"

"What do you want to do?" Blair asked him, mindful to keep his voice low as he helped Jim pack away the remains of their dinner. He knew how well sound carried into the guest room, but he hoped his years of practice at speaking in whispers to Jim would counter that.

Jim stepped in close as he handed Blair the containers to put in the fridge. "You have to ask, Chief?" he asked incredulously. "After what we just saw?"

"I know what I saw," Blair replied, "but you haven't given me a reason why I should just blindly follow your lead. For all I know you're high on pheromones."

"You're never going to let me live that one down, are you?" Jim shook his head. "Aren't you the one who used to preach giving people a chance to explain themselves?"

"Yeah, and then I became a cop," Blair said grimly. "Look, I haven't worked with her the last two weeks and you've been your usual closed-mouth self about her. I don't know her like you do."

"You've followed my lead on less," Jim pointed out calmly. "And she's my partner."

Blair looked at him and sighed. Like it or not, the Sentinel's tribe had just gained another member. There were times when Jim surprised him with what he was capable of accepting as his to protect. There were other times when Blair wasn’t sure what to make of it when he wanted to do precisely the same thing – didn’t being the Guide mean he had to be the reasonable one when his Sentinel wanted to protect the world?

Still, Blair couldn’t escape the facts. One, Sara Pezzini was the owner – or more precisely was owned by – some pretty freaky jewelry-cum-armor. Two, Sara had moved herself clear across the country, after nearly dying in her line of work more times than seemed possible. Three, Blair couldn’t see any way she could lie about what she’d said. Who would even want to make up such a fantastic story?

Jim saw the look on Blair’s face. "Look, I know this is pretty wild, even for us," he said. "But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen that damn thing change – though not quite the way it did just now. Remember when she called you to break me out of that zone? It changed then, too."

Blair stared at him, bewildered. "Why the hell didn’t you say something then? I thought we weren’t keeping secrets from each other anymore."

Jim shook his head. "Wasn’t sure if it was just some fluke," he admitted. "Thought maybe you’d done something over the phone, somehow. I know you’ve been studying shamanism with that guy up in Snohomish County."

"Jim, if I had that kind of power," Blair replied exasperatedly, "don’t you think you’d be the first person I’d tell? Don’t you think I’d be freaking out? And by the way, we still haven’t talked about why the hell guiding you over a cell phone worked so well that time."

Jim snorted. "I thought that was obvious, Chief. Pezzini was holding the phone – in her right hand."

"And the Witchblade acted as an amplifier," Blair summarized. "Do you think she’d be willing to do some—" His enthusiasm dimmed as he saw the warning look on Jim’s face. "Right. No testing, no experiments—"

"And no more discussion about this," Jim finished warningly. "You think I was running scared when you met me? Come on, Dr. Sandburg, you’re usually not this slow about sizing up situations." The use of his professional title was deliberate, Blair knew.

Blair considered that, his automatic reply fading under the need to reevaluate his enthusiasm. "Sorry. She’s terrified we’ll do something, isn’t she?"

Jim cocked his head and offered him a rueful smile. "Try paranoid, with more than enough evidence to back that paranoia up," he told Blair.

"Based on what she’s told you so far," Blair guessed. "Damn. I thought she was going to rabbit earlier, but I had no idea she didn’t want to talk about this. This is huge." He sighed and looked at Jim. "You’re right. She needs our help."

Jim nodded, but he looked relieved that Blair wasn't going to fight him on the issue.

A few minutes later, Sara emerged from the guest bedroom and returned to the living room. The shirt fit loosely on her and draped considerably; the pants, less so. Blair suspected she’d been loaned a pair of his sweatpants that he’d left in the loft for emergencies. She seemed composed enough, and Witchblade was once more a pretty bracelet. She’d rolled up the sleeves of the shirt.

She took a seat on the loveseat, facing the two men.

"All I wanted was a place to start over," she began. "My captain didn’t like me – I got spooky hunches, I preferred to work alone, I’d had two partners die in less than a year, I didn’t play by the rules. I helped the FBI bust up a decades-old 'tradition' of corrupt cops; I accused a billionaire of trying to kill me." She snorted. "What my captain wanted, I’ll never know, but it wasn’t a cop like me." She breathed carefully, clearly remembering painful memories. "I was on medical leave for six weeks after Irons tried to kill me. Paramedics thought I’d stuck a Kevlar plate in my leather jacket that stopped the knife from going all of the way through." She shrugged. "I wasn’t about to correct them and say it was this." She tapped the Witchblade. "Still hurt like a son-of-a-bitch." She paused, clearly trying to decide what to say. "Everything I've known for the past two and half years has been chaos. I thought maybe if I went to the farthest point I could, I'd stop feeling like I failed."

"Failed? Failed what?"

She rose and moved to the balcony, hugging herself. One tendril of the Witchblade snaked out and wrapped itself around her like a lover comforting her. The sight made Blair’s heart ache and he blinked back a sudden rush of tears. He wasn’t even aware he’d moved until he was there, standing in front of her. For a moment, he nearly forgot his leg was in a walking cast, and barely controlled the hiss of pain the movement produced.

"Does it matter?" she asked. Her voice was so soft Blair missed what she said, but Jim heard.

"It only matters if you think you’ve fucked up," Jim said, rising to his feet and moving swiftly to take her in his arms. "If this thing –" and he gently tapped the stone of the Witchblade "—keeps telling you that you have, that you have to sacrifice something to make it happy. When’s the last time you let yourself lean on someone else, instead of letting this show you nothing but crime scenes and death?"

Her face was bleak with sorrow; her breath hitched as she stifled the sob. "I… I can’t remember. Long before I knew there was anything called a Witchblade."

"Too long, then," Blair said, echoing Jim’s thoughts.

Sara shuddered, and for a moment, Jim saw the tendril of the Witchblade that was wrapped around her tighten. "No," he commanded instinctively, not liking the way it wasn’t allowing him to hold her, not liking the way she smelled of fear and the Witchblade seemed to sing with power.

"Sara, just breathe," he heard Blair say. "Come on, you can yell at me later like Jim does, but breathe, okay. Deep breaths. In and out, yeah, one deep breath, inhale. Exhale. Another one."

She shuddered again.

"It’s okay, I’ve got you," Jim assured her. He turned his head to look at Blair, who was watching them with a haunted expression on his face, sadness seeping through him as though his heart was breaking. "What, Chief?"

Blair slowly shook his head and took a step closer. "Tell you later," he replied softly. "Right now, just hold Sara tight."

Not understanding why, Jim looked at Blair in confusion. Blair gave him a half-smile. "Need to grab a chair, if I’m going to do this."

"Do what?" Sara asked suspiciously.

"No, Chief, you sit down, you had PT today. Come on, Sara, let’s move this to somewhere a little more comfortable for all of us." Not giving her a chance to argue, Jim maneuvered her to the couch. To his relief, the Witchblade retracted, becoming an innocuous bracelet again.

Blair waited until they had sat down before moving to sit beside Sara. He took her hand as he told her, "I want you to close your eyes and just breathe. Nothing is going to happen here that you don’t want. You’re safe, and between Jim and me, we’ll protect you."

Sara looked at him, then Jim, as if she didn’t want to believe she could _be_ safe without it being on her terms.

"You’re not the only one who sees visions," Blair told her, remembering what Jim had said about him, knowing that, for now, Jim’s Sentinel abilities could still be kept a secret. He knew they’d have to lay their cards on the table soon enough, but at the moment, Blair wanted to deal with one revelation at a time. He wasn’t sure what Sara’s tolerance for shocks were, and from the way she was pulling in on herself, he wasn’t certain she wouldn’t think they were just telling her anything to keep her right where she was. "I kept dreaming you were coming here."

"You don’t understand," Sara said, resisting.

"Maybe not," Jim offered. "But I do know what I’m capable of doing, and so does Sandburg, and we_ will _do our best to protect you. So who’s chasing you? An old boyfriend? Someone who worked for Irons?"

Sara shook her head. "Not that I’m aware of," she told them. "I just…" She bit her lip and closed her eyes as if that would hold back the pain she so clearly felt. "I can’t do this, but if I let go –"

"Shh," Jim said, cradling her close.

Still, she fought. "I can’t lose. I _won’t _lose."

Jim smelled the blood before he registered the blood dripping down his back from Sara’s wrist as the Witchblade started to lift off. Swearing, he pulled out of the embrace quickly and grabbed her wrist, forcefully holding the half-transformed bracelet in place. "Sara Pezzini, listen to me. You are not going to lose and you aren’t weak for wanting help. Don’t let this cursed thing tell you any different," he said, speaking quickly as he heard his jaguar growl in unison with Blair’s wolf. "You are one of the best damned cops I’ve ever met, one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. It’s okay to lean on me, on us, and you are not going to lose a damned thing."

He registered Blair’s quick intake of breath as Blair realized what was going on. Ignoring it and the sounds of Blair hastily rising to grab the first-aid kit from the kitchen, Jim focused on Sara. Her breathing was ragged, her skin was going pale with shock, and she was starting to tremble. "Stay with me, Pez, come on, I’ve seen you in the gym, kickboxing, so I know you can kick ass. Tell the damn Witchblade to shut the fuck up and stay put. You’re in my city, damn it, and it brought you here to me for a reason, and I’m not letting either of you go."

For a moment, he thought for sure he’d lost her, that the gauntlet was going to rip off her arm. It nearly smelled like it. Under his hand, Jim could feel the tiny slivers of razor-sharp metal that edged the otherwise pretty bracelet. Sara's fear was a tangible thing he could nearly taste, and he had to fight not to drown in it, to rise above it so that her fear was not his own.

Sara took a deep breath. Instinctively, Jim let her wrist go, something telling him he'd held on long enough. In the coldest voice he’d ever heard, Sara said distinctively, "Mine."

The gauntlet wavered visibly, then grew another tendril and snaked around her wrist, as if sealing the deal. Abruptly, Sara’s wrist healed. Only the spilled blood bore any evidence of her injury. Jim found himself letting go of the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Sara stared at him as Blair dropped the first aid kit on the coffee table. "Guess you won’t be needing that now," Blair said, relieved. "Good thing that couch has been Stainguarded, huh, Jim?"

Jim nodded, not liking the way Sara still looked pale and trembled faintly. "Sit down, Chief, and take over. Get her to breathe, the way you do me when you're pulling me out of a zone. I'm going to get something to drink."

"I should –" Sara started, but the look in Jim's eyes stopped her as he rose to his feet.

"Don't make me handcuff you, Pezzini, to get you to stay put," Jim threatened quietly. "I will."

Blair sat down and pulled her up against him, her back to his chest. "Shh, I've got you now, Jim's just worried you'll bolt. So am I. I know you want to go, Sara, but just stay here, all right? We want to help you. Just breathe, Sara, slow and easy," he told her in his best you're-going-to-stop-zoning-now-damn-it voice. "You don't have to look at anything just yet, just feel my arms around you, breathe, easy, come back from wherever the hell that cursed thing tried to take you." He felt her relax marginally, but not nearly enough to suit his taste. Some instinct he didn't know he had made him reach deep within for the shamanic power he kept in reserve for emergencies. "Come on, breathe, Sara, you know how to do this," he commanded.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blair felt more than saw Jim jerk at the power in his voice. "Dial it down, Jim, and do what you intended to do. Breathe, Sara, you've survived more than this, you are the Wielder. Nobody can take that away from you." He wasn't even sure where the words were coming from, and he felt oddly distanced yet present as he spoke. "Relax. We have you, and you're safe. Breathe, in and out, steady and slow."

He nearly held his own breath as slowly, painfully, Sara did as he instructed. With one last shudder, she leaned into him and let go. Jim returned from the kitchen with a shot of whiskey.

"Drink this," he told Sara.

She took the shot glass without resisting and did as she was told. A hint of a smile played on her lips as she absorbed the power of that particular whiskey, but she said nothing.

"You okay, Chief? I've never heard your voice like that," he told Blair.

Blair willed the power back into the figurative closet he kept it in. "Haven't –" Hearing the power still in his voice, he took a deep breath and tried again. "Haven’t needed it, but knew it was there, thanks to Incacha," he replied. "Sorry to have to use it on you, Sara, but you weren't listening."

She didn't reply right away. "Never heard anyone sound like that," she said finally, handing the shot glass back to Jim, who set it on the coffee table. "Felt like you were screaming over the Witchblade."

"Maybe I was," Blair replied. "You ready to talk to us about who's chasing you?"

"I wish I knew," she said, but didn't meet Jim's eyes when she said it, and the slight jump in her heartbeat told him she was lying.

"Bullshit," Jim said distinctly. "I can hear you lie, Pezzini."

She took a deep breath and let it go. "I know," she admitted. "I got a flash of you and Sandburg using your senses to find someone, when he was talking to me just now." She gave Jim a half smile. "Can't a girl have her illusions?"

"Not if they're going to hurt you," he said bluntly. He glanced at Blair, noting that he didn't seem all that surprised, either, that the Witchblade had revealed their secret. The night's revelations were starting to wear on him, and he knew that Blair had been tired even before then; he could feel his Guide's weariness as if it was his own. Still, Jim pulled up his reserves of strength, wanting resolution before they went to bed, and willed some of it into the invisible tie that bound him to his Guide, hoping it would help.

He saw Blair's nod and smile of gratitude as Blair felt that. Blair breathed deeply and sat up straighter. "Come on, Sara, don't make us into the bad guys," he told her, a hint of that shaman-magic in his voice.

"I know, but –" She stopped, then corrected herself. "I don't know who it is that's killing people, but given the Witchblade was ready to abandon me if I didn't stand up to it, I'm sure it's someone who it's picked to be its next wielder. It does that sometimes."

"Lovely," Blair said sourly. Sara started to move out of his embrace, but he tightened his hold. "No, you're not heavy; you're fine where you are."

"Can anyone be a wielder?" Jim asked.

"It prefers women of a certain bloodline," Sara said wearily. "I was adopted, and no, I really don't want to go down the reasons why looking up my records will get you nowhere. For all I know, this isn't connected at all to me."

"You don't believe that," Jim said with certainty.

"I don't know what to believe," Sara said bitterly. "Truth and justice were two things I held dear, and if there's one thing the last three years have pounded into my brain, it's whose truth and whose justice." In a quieter voice, she added, "I'm just so tired of fighting."

Jim glanced over at Blair, who merely nodded in silent agreement. "Then we'll talk more about this tomorrow," he declared, "but tonight… tonight you're not going to be alone, and you can let us fight this for you. Sound like a plan?"

"And if you say you're intruding one more time, then you don't know us very well," Blair added.

All of the fight seemed to have leached out of Sara as she sighed and gave in. "All right." She yawned, abruptly exhausted.

"One thing, Sara," Blair said, "before we – " Jim glared at him, pointedly looking at Blair’s injured leg "—or should I say Jim tucks you into bed, may I suggest something?"

Cautiously, she nodded.

"When that thing starts trying to tell you something like you’re not worth it," Blair suggested, "would you do yourself a favor, take a deep breath, and tell it if it didn’t think you were, you wouldn’t put up with its shit?"

For a moment, Sara looked as though she didn’t quite understand what he was saying. The reluctant chuckle a heartbeat later told both men she’d understood.

****

"I heard you tossing and turning last night," Jim remarked quietly to Blair, stepping into the living room. "Did you sleep?"

Blair shrugged, careful not to spill the coffee mug he held. "Not really," he admitted, turning away from the balcony and the view of the rainy morning. "I’d forgotten just how used to I’ve become to sleeping on something other than a futon mattress. Plus, my leg kept twitching, and I’m not entirely convinced the muscle relaxer’s helping. I’ll stop by the apothecary later; I know what’ll help."

Surprised, Jim studied him a moment. "Aren’t you doing it backward, Chief? Usually with you it’s the natural remedies first, then the drugs."

Blair shrugged again. "Thought I’d try it the other way for a change."

Jim chuckled briefly. "That’s not the only thing you’re considering," he observed mildly.

Blair looked at him wryly. "Aren’t you freaked out about what happened last night? I mean, what are the odds? It’s hard enough to believe it when someone moves all the way out here from the East Coast, even more so when she says a mystical bracelet told her to."

"I’m more concerned with why it told her to," Jim admitted. "Sara knows more than she’s telling."

"You think?" Blair asked dryly, a half-smile on his lips. "She has that same look you had when we met, like you weren’t sure who to trust with anything and I was one word away from getting seriously hurt." He sighed as his smile disappeared. "Wonder if Irons was the one to tell her what the Witchblade was? He was the one to loan it to the Metropolitan Museum in the first place."

"Given that, I wouldn’t doubt it," Jim replied. "If it had happened to me, I’d probably go ask him about it." He said nothing for a moment, considering the information he had. "You said he was a billionaire, right? How much more money could he have made if he had a Wielder to control?"

"Probably wasn’t about the money," Blair countered. "Think about it, Jim. Sara said last night she saw the past. What if she also could see the future?"

Jim stared at him. "I think she can," he told Blair. "The last crime scene, she said she saw it before we even left the truck."

"So why haven’t you two solved this already?" Blair asked. "Between your senses and her visions –"

"That’s just it, Chief," Jim interrupted. "I’m not getting anything other than the usual stuff I’d get at any other crime scene –"

"What about the time you zoned?"

Jim grimaced. "It wasn’t a zone so much as getting trapped in a flashback from when my team went down in Peru. The smell of the blood, the way the corpse looked –"

Wide-eyed, Blair looked at him. "You haven’t had one of those since—" He didn’t have to finish. They both knew he was going to say David Lash.

Jim nodded curtly. "Yeah. But even if I take that away, I keep feeling like I’m missing something. Maybe later we’ll work on helping me remember."

"What, I don’t have to fight you on this one?" Blair said disbelievingly.

Jim shot him a rueful smile. "Hey, you’ve proven to me it works. Maybe you can teach Pez to do the same sort of thing."

"If she'll let me," Blair agreed.

"You'll find a way to convince her; you convinced me," Jim told him with a smile. "Come on, let's get breakfast started."

******

Sara woke, feeling oddly secure and rested. Rain pounded at the skylights and at the windows, signaling a stereotypical rainy day. For a moment, she lay there, unwilling to move, unsure if she could without breaking the spell of security she felt. She turned her head, seeing the neatly made other half of the bed, and closed her eyes.

Ellison – no, that didn't feel right anymore, not after last night's revelations – Jim had held her all night. The thoughts made her realize she hadn’t had a peaceful sleep like that in years. Reluctantly, she sat upright, looking for an alarm clock to tell her what the time was. To her surprise, she didn’t see one, and assumed that Jim must use his watch as his alarm. Blair had stayed as well, cheerfully informing her that the guest bedroom used to be his when he’d lived there before.

She heard Jim and Blair downstairs, though she couldn’t hear what they were saying. The smell of pancakes and bacon rose to greet her, and her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten much the previous night.

With a shock, Sara realized she didn’t want to leave the bed. She was warm, she was safe, she didn’t have to be anywhere for the next twenty-four hours; Simon had ordered they take a break before they burned themselves out trying to solve the case. There’d been nothing sexual in the way Jim had held her the previous evening, though she knew he found her attractive. The Witchblade loved to taunt her with that kind of knowledge, and she felt it stir in the back of her head, clamoring for attention.

Breathing deeply, she told the Witchblade to shut up for the moment, and luxuriated in the feeling of knowing she didn’t have to hide who she was. It was a heady sensation…and it lasted as long as it took for the old paranoia to creep back in. Someone or something was going to take this feeling away from her.

"That’s a pretty unhappy face for someone who looks so good in my bed," Jim teased her. His gaze slid downward, taking in the way she looked in the Cascade PD shirt she’d borrowed as pajamas.

With a start, Sara realized he’d managed to ascend the stairs without making a sound. _Of course he would,_ she told herself, _it’s his place; he’d know where all the creaks were._

"Don’t you know the rules against fraternization, Ellison?" she shot back, covering her sudden fear and deliberately using his last name.

He leaned on the railing, smiling. "Of course," he agreed. "But it’s hard to agree with them when all I see is you, in my bed, making me wish for things I can’t have."

Sara went still. "Such as?"

His grin widened, and she knew she’d been had. She abruptly felt like a heel for believing Jim's attraction for her was anything more than any other man’s.

"Anyone ever tell you you’re easy to tease?" He chuckled. "Don’t worry, Pez, your virtue’s safe. Your share of pancakes and bacon, however, is up for grabs. Feel free to use the shower downstairs first if you’d like."

She stared at him a moment, but when he turned to head back downstairs, she shook herself and rose. "I’ll shower at home," she decided, feeling like she’d intruded enough. "I should go. You and Blair probably have plans, since –"

Jim stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. "What, are you scared of us, Pezzini?" He shook his head in disgust. "Think we’re going to attack you for that cursed thing you wear? In case you haven’t been paying attention, we’re the good guys."

"I’m not scared of you," she snapped.

He arched an eyebrow. "No? Then quit acting like it and come eat something before your stomach’s convinced you’ve forgotten what eating is." He headed downstairs, still moving quietly, but his annoyance showing in the tightness of his shoulders.

Sara’s eyes narrowed as the challenge to her courage registered. Determinedly, she moved downstairs.

Blair looked at her as she reached the breakfast bar and just as quickly handed her a mug. She smelled coffee and the smell alone hit her like a wakeup call, soothing her temper. Cautiously, she took a sip and found the flavor to be unlike anything she’d ever tasted. She very nearly purred, but decided to finish the mug first.

"Tell me where to get more of this and no one gets hurt," she growled.

Blair and Jim looked at each other and shared a quick smile before the younger man reached over, grabbed the coffee pot, and poured more liquid into Sara’s mug. "We can make more if need be," Blair told her. "Now, as to where to buy more, if you promise not to bite my head off, sit down, and eat something, say some bacon, I might inclined to tell you."

"I promise." The words were quickly spoken.

"And I thought I woke up grumpy," Blair remarked as he added bacon and pancakes to a plate and passed it over to her.

Sara decided that since he’d served her more of that excellent coffee, she was going to ignore any and all insults until she was finished eating.

"Grumpy?" Jim asked Blair. "Chief, I learned not to wake you up without coffee within the first two days you were living here."

"I’m surprised it took you that long."

Dryly, Jim replied, "I was too busy dealing with an ape, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair said, nodding as he shut off the griddle and dug into a smaller stack of pancakes and bacon than what he’d served Sara. Jim rose and switched places with Blair, shooing him to the barstool he’d just vacated, and started cleaning up the dishes.

For several minutes, a comfortable silence reigned as Sara allowed herself the luxury of indulging in good coffee, good food, and good company. Even the Witchblade was quiet, as if it recognized its wielder needed this comfort. Sara was halfway through what she’d been served when the comment Jim had made registered.

"Ape? What in the world were you doing with an ape?" she asked.

Blair chuckled. "I was living in a warehouse, doing a study on violence, and Larry was the Barbary ape I was using for my experiments. Warehouse blew up thanks to the drug lab next door. I convinced Jim to let me crash here."

"It was only supposed to be for a week," Jim added as he wiped the counter. "The ape was gone after less than that."

Sara considered the words and the affection behind them. "So how long did you live here?" she asked, looking at Blair.

"Six and half years," he replied. "Couldn’t afford to move anywhere else until after I’d started getting paid by the CPD."

Sara frowned. "Paid? Then why was Banks so worried about you doing your job with the Bryce trial going on?"

"Officially, Blair was a ride-along; he needed information for his graduate dissertation on closed societies," Jim replied. "His police observer credentials kept getting extended so much that he wound up as an unpaid civilian consultant for the better part of four years."

"The Bryce trial’s from that time," Blair added. "Technically speaking, it’s not anything a consultant would’ve been allowed to observe, especially since Jim and I got kidnapped."

Sara looked at him, then at Jim, as the Witchblade helpfully provided a montage of scenes from then. "You needed him for your senses," she said carefully.

Both men nodded.

Admiring, she asked, "How the hell did you manage to lie to Banks about that?"

"We didn’t," Jim told her. "Simon knew I’d been having problems with my senses. When Blair found me, I was convinced I was going crazy. We worked it out."

"You’re not suggesting I tell him about my little gift, are you?" Sara leaped at the conclusion, at once afraid and furious.

"Calm down," Jim snapped. "We’re not suggesting anything, Sara, and you’re letting your paranoia – or maybe it’s that damned thing you’re wearing – put words in our mouths. You think I would do that to you?"

"I wouldn’t, either." Blair’s voice held bitter knowledge. "If you want to say anything to Simon, that’s your choice, and we can deal with being yelled at for knowing and not saying. We’re not whoever the hell the jerks in your old precinct were."

"Damn straight," Jim added. "So quit being so damned paranoid." He gestured to her plate. "You finished with that?"

Stunned, Sara took refuge in eating. "No," she said as firmly as she could manage, and looked down at her plate, unwilling to meet Jim’s eyes. Deliberately, she ate more of her pancakes, using the time to will her shock to subside.

"Let me guess," Jim’s voice cut into her thoughts, "the last person you trusted who knew about your gift died horribly."

She jerked her gaze from her plate and stared at him. "You don’t know how that feels –"

"I wouldn’t be alive," Blair interrupted her, "if he hadn’t loved me enough to not want to let go. I was dead. Enough people saw me dead that the fact I’m alive is something of a miracle. So don’t pretend to tell us how betrayal and loss and desperation feel like, because we’ve been through our own kind of hell, Sara. You’re not the only one, and for God’s sake, you’re not alone. Now are you going to let us be your friends, or are we going to have to keep kicking your ass until you understand that?"

_Trust them,_ the Witchblade nearly shouted. _You need them, Sentinel and Shaman-Guide._ She had a sudden flash of being trapped somewhere, in need of rescue, and she shook herself.

_I am not a fucking damsel in distress_, she snarled mentally at the Witchblade. _I’m a cop, and I can hang on to you, you cursed thing. But I am not about to let you dictate who my friends are. This is my choice, damn it._

"I understand," she told the waiting men, and ignored the mocking laughter from the semi-sentient gauntlet. She took a deep breath and pushed her breakfast aside. She could do this. She could trust someone, let herself lean on the strength of others who wanted to help, who had secrets of their own to keep. She just was out of practice. Letting out the breath, she asked, "So did you want to keep working on this case or did you have something else in mind?"

"We aren’t getting any closer to solving it," Jim said, "and that's after he and I discussed it this morning while you were still sleeping. I usually work out on Saturday mornings, and since Blair’s not in any shape to spot me, I thought you might be interested in coming to the gym and working out with me."

"I’ll need to run home and grab a few things," Sara said. "Where should I meet you?"

"You used to riding that bike of yours in the rain yet?" Blair asked, concerned.

"I’ll get there eventually," Sara assured him. "Can’t be any worse than snow and ice in New York, and I’ve done that enough."

Jim gave her directions. "We’ll meet you there in an hour, how’s that sound?"

She smiled, willing for the moment to believe it was this simple. "Perfect."

*****

Blair disliked being at the gym, especially the one Jim preferred. It was a no-frills sort of place, and despite the muscles he’d put on out of sheer necessity to keep up with Jim over the years, Blair always felt like an outsider. He understood the looks that had been shot his way initially had been the ones he’d gotten for years – based on his long hair, the way he’d dressed, the way he moved. AJ’s Gym offered no classes, no private trainers, no smoothie bars and no fancy memberships. It was, Blair thought privately, a gym for a very traditional kind of guy. It was also one of the few places Jim could go where he wasn’t likely to zone out on the kind of random smells that a more commercial gym would invite. Not too many women worked out at AJ’s, and those that did tended to be fairly hard-core themselves.

Regaled to an observer due to his walking cast, Blair settled back on one of the few benches that lined the perimeter of weight room to watch. Sara had already caused a stir, being new and a woman, but the way she carried herself had silenced any comments anyone might have made. For a moment, Blair wished he wasn’t stuck out on the sidelines. He wanted to work out – Saturdays like this had always been a way for him to reconnect with Jim – but knew his friend wouldn’t let him push himself. If it weren’t for the fact that Jim had requested that Blair stay around in case he zoned, Blair would’ve left. Not in a million years would he admit aloud how very frustrating it was to sit and watch someone work out when you couldn’t do anything to help, especially since you weren’t supposed to be ogling your best friend, or the woman you now counted as a friend.

When his cell phone rang, Blair very nearly wept with joy. "Hang on, whoever you are," he said, speaking quickly. "I have to take this somewhere else."

"Certainly, I will wait," a male voice he didn’t recognize said in a musical, oddly-flavored accent as Blair gratefully took the opportunity to escape the gym for the relative privacy of the lobby.

"All right, what can I do for you?" Blair asked, biting back the wince of pain from moving a little too quickly. He was beginning to think he’d never be healed at this rate, and silently vowed to do some extra meditation later in addition to the run to the apothecary. Maybe if he worked on clearing up his meridians, he’d feel better. Wishing he could just dial down the pain and wondering if he shouldn’t have just stayed in bed, Blair dragged his focus back on the conversation.

"I hope I’m not calling at a bad time, Dr. Sandburg," the man said. "My name is Reverend Evan Keaton. I’m the minister of the New Life Hope International Church. I understand from Professor Cho that you are looking for information on the international community here in Cascade and are meeting with community leaders to discuss our issues. I have spoken with my congregation at length and would like to meet with you. Would you be able to do so?"

"Certainly," Blair agreed readily. "Where would you like to meet? I’m available now."

"Do you know where Magellan Elementary School is, over by Ravensgate?"

"Is that on the mall side of the canal?"

"No, we’re on the other side, just across the Ravensgate Bridge and one block east of the totem pole."

Blair checked his watch and looked out at the street. They’d taken Jim’s truck, which left Blair the option of the bus or interrupting Jim’s workout. He knew the #14 ran every fifteen minutes to Ravensgate, and he was just a few neighborhoods away. "I’ll be there in half an hour, give or take fifteen minutes," he promised.

"I look forward to meeting you." The minister disconnected the line, and Blair tucked his cell phone back in his pocket.

"You headed out?" Jim asked when Blair stepped back into the weight room and made his way to where Jim was helping Sara lace up her boxing gloves.

"Yeah, I have a meeting with one of the ministers," Blair told him. "And before you ask, no, I don't want a ride. It's just over in Ravensgate, it's stopped raining, and if you two show up with me, he might think we're doing a criminal investigation rather than a research study."

For a moment, Jim looked as though he wanted to argue the point. He had the look that said he'd picked up on just how Blair's slowly healing muscle ached.

Sara glanced at Jim, then at Blair, and winked conspiratorially. "Yeah, you look less of a cop than we do."

"Want us to pick you up?" Jim asked, giving in.

Blair shook his head. "I have no idea how long I'll be. If the minister has anything valuable, I'll want to type up my notes and modify my presentation."

Sara looked at him. "That sounds like you were nearly finished with it."

Blair shrugged. "Commissioner wants a preliminary report on Monday. To do this right, I'd need more time, but that's not going to happen." He smiled easily. "Don't hurt each other too much, you two."

Sara watched Jim's gaze on Blair as the younger man headed for the door. "You know," she observed mildly, "the way you watch him, people might get the wrong idea."

Jim chuckled and turned his focus on her. "Wouldn't be the first time," he told her, not sounding surprised she'd made the comment, as he moved to brace the punching bag. "Whenever you're ready, Pez."

****

The church was a faded white building in much need of a new paint job that looked as though it had been a large single-family residence in a previous life. The equally faded sign out front proclaimed it held services in Japanese, Russian, Vietnamese, and Korean as well as English. The front lawn had been converted to a gravel parking lot, separated by a concrete walkway.

Blair made his way to the front door, which looked like a hundred other double-wide church doors he'd seen in his life. Idly, he wondered if this particular version counted as church door, generic model A. He tried the door handle and found it unlocked. Pulling open the door, he stepped into the foyer.

The foyer was, like the door, a fairly functional affair. Two coat closets lined either side of the foyer, and a small, narrow table had been positioned near the door. It currently held a selection of brochures. The doors into the sanctuary were open, but no one was there.

Blair felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. It was too quiet and still in this small church. He felt like he was poised on the brink of something, as if he was out in a snow-filled clearing and had sensed danger. He shook himself, telling himself that this place probably just hadn't had anyone use it for worship all week. There was nothing to be afraid of, and he was a trained police officer now, not some observer who'd been doing the best he could under some very insane circumstances. Yet he couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that chilled him. For half a heartbeat, he thought he’d heard his wolf growl, and he shivered with a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Hello?" Blair called.

He waited, reassuring himself with idle thoughts of waiting rituals in the cultures he'd studied, the sound bite he'd heard on the news about how the average American spends two to three years of his life waiting in line. He waited a few more minutes, then pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and hit redial on the number the minister had used to call him.

_Come on, come on, answer the phone,_ Blair thought anxiously. The silence in the sanctuary was starting to freak him out instead of being a relaxing, meditative peace. He knew that being fifteen minutes late was not a big deal in Cascade due to the way the buses ran, but even factoring that in, Blair had been well within his promised meeting time.

The echo of footsteps on the hardwood floor of the sanctuary had him turning sharply towards the sound as his heart leapt into his throat. He shoved the panic down with a firm reminder he'd survived far worse than a simple meeting. It didn't quiet the paranoid voice in the back of his head, and he had a half-second's thought that maybe Sara did have a point there. With a sudden snap back to reality, Blair realized he was listening to a recording and hung up his phone, tucking the instrument in his pocket.

A broad-shouldered, largely built, dark-skinned man of average height was making his way towards Blair. He was dressed in a dark purple button-down shirt, black jeans, and black loafers. He wore glasses, but as Blair studied him, Blair realized he'd be hard-pressed to describe as anything other than big, dark, and ordinary.

"Dr. Sandburg? I'm Reverend Keaton," the man introduced himself as he closed the distance to shake Blair's hand. "I'm sorry if I kept you waiting. My daughter wanted to borrow the car, and I was out in the back."

"It's all right," Blair assured him, shoving aside the sudden sense of unease he felt. He wasn’t sure what it was about the man that made him so uneasy. "Did you want to talk here or elsewhere?"

****

Showered and changed into street clothes after their workout, Jim waited in the gym's small lobby for Sara to emerge from the locker room. Despite a temporary reprieve, the rain had turned into a torrent, the kind that made visibility difficult, and Jim had no desire to see Sara hurt.

She saw him waiting, and he saw distrust flash instinctively across her face before she registered the sound of the pouring rain and looked out the lobby windows. Mentally he sighed, wondering just how much effort it took to get someone to trust you when said person had a mystical gauntlet feeding her paranoia. Without moving from where he stood, Jim swiftly catalogued Sara, noting what was different about her.

She'd used a vaguely floral shower gel and shampoo. She'd braided her hair wet, no doubt in preparation for riding. She now wore a NYPD T-shirt under her leather motorcycle jacket, blue jeans, and motorcycle boots. She carried her helmet in her left hand and her gym bag was a backpack she'd slung over her left shoulder. She seemed disappointed and resigned by the rain, but not afraid of Jim. The distrust had been habit, a flash from the Witchblade no doubt, gone once Sara recognized why Jim was waiting.

He let go of the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I have some rope and bungee cords in my truck if you want to load your bike in the bed," he offered. "This isn't going to let up for hours."

Sara eyed him skeptically. "You can tell that, or are you just speaking from experience?" she asked.

"Both, actually," Jim said, and realized again just how nice it felt to have a partner who knew he was a Sentinel. "Did you want me to drop you off at your place or did you want to head back to mine?"

"I don't want to intrude on your time off, Jim," she told him.

He shrugged. "Wasn't planning on doing much. Catch up on some laundry, watch a movie, maybe see if I can get Sandburg to give that damned leg of his a rest." He grinned. "Maybe you can help with that, once he comes back from talking with that minister."

"I should get some laundry done myself," Sara said. "And there's some stuff I've been putting off doing."

Jim looked at her and read the need to have some privacy after all the shared spaces of the previous night and morning. "Meet you for dinner later?" he asked, understanding.

"I'll let you know," she said.

He nodded, accepting the answer. He'd have been more surprised if she'd agreed. "Come on, let's get your bike loaded."

****

The car horn broke Blair’s concentration as he stood at the bus stop. He looked up from where he stood, mentally composing how he’d incorporate Reverend Keaton’s commentary into his presentation, given that he had to filter out some of the preaching the reverend had seen fit to weave into his narrative, and saw a late-model sedan pull up.

"Hey, Blair!" a woman’s voice called to him as she leaned out the driver’s side. "Wanna ride?"

He grinned, recognizing the slender, doll-like Japanese-American woman. "No, I thought I’d prove my anthro coping cred by standing in the rain," he drawled.

She laughed richly. "Yeah, right. I know when your last field trip was, _Dr._ Sandburg, and that's because I helped you pack for it."

He chuckled. "So you did, Sue Mai." He made his way around to the passenger seat, opened the door, and slid in, grateful for the ride and the chance to get out of the rain.

"So what did you do to your leg?" she asked as they pulled away from the curb.

"Landed wrong when I ran after a suspect a few weeks ago, ripped a muscle," he told her, and she winced. "Coming back from shopping?"

"No, I had brunch with Tracey – she needed cheering up; she broke up with her last girlfriend – and she lives here now." Sue Mai glanced at Blair. "What about you?"

"Working on a special project," Blair replied. Once, he knew, he would've happily espoused on the subject, but he'd learned the hard way to keep his work confidential, long before he'd become a cop. The understanding smile Sue Mai shot him told him she didn't hold his secrecy against him. With a start, he realized he hadn't talked to her in a month. Had he really been that busy he couldn't stay in touch?

"So where's your partner? Or is that under the 'need to know'?"

Blair chuckled softly, shoving the faint worry over their lack of recent communication aside. "He has the day off. You're not still infatuated with him, are you?"

Sue Mai laughed. "Come on, like you aren't? Besides, I'd have to turn in my membership in the Male Appreciation Society if I didn't find him attractive. I'm just glad I didn't trip over my words when I finally met him."

"Right," Blair said dubiously. "So says the woman who walked up to a gawky seventeen-year-old and said, 'Hi, I'm Sue Mai Roberts, we need a fourth roommate for our house, you look like you need a place, want to join in?'" He shook his head at the memory.

"And we both ended up with a damn good friendship," she stated firmly. "So I happen to think it was a pretty good move on my part."

"My point exactly, Sue Mai. You've never lacked in the confidence department."

She grinned. "So says the kettle to the pot, which means we've a total mutual admiration society going here; I thought we established that a long time ago. So, should I drop you off at the precinct or at your place?"

"Did you have something in mind?" Blair countered.

"Well, I was going to call you anyway. Tracey's so depressing – woe is me, I'm lesbian, I'm not getting laid, my girlfriend left me. Isn't that a Melissa Etheridge song?" Sue Mai rolled her eyes. "I begin to understand why you quit being friends with her. Anyway, after that, I wanted to do something fun. Interested?"

"Depends," Blair said cautiously, aware that her idea of fun was a wide-ranging one.

"Nothing wilder than heading over to Stone Gardens and climbing the rock wall. Though I'll understand if you want to skip that part and just meet me for dinner. We could go clubbing afterwards, see who does a better on-the-spot-study of people."

"I'll skip the rock-climbing part," Blair told her regretfully. "But dinner sounds great." He paused, then asked slowly, "Do you ever regret giving up anthropology and becoming a software tester?"

She reached over and grasped his hand and squeezed it once. "Not anymore. If I hadn't needed the money, I probably wouldn't have figured out what I love to do. You always were the one with the big-ass dream." She paused. "Having second thoughts about being a cop?"

"No," Blair told her firmly. "Just realized I'd never asked you about your change of careers."

Sue Mai shrugged. "Thought we'd already talked about it," she remarked as she checked traffic before making a right-hand turn.

"Probably," Blair agreed. "Didn't remember. And hey, you don't have to go out of your way to drop me off." He knew she lived on the other side of the city from him.

"Yeah, right, and then I'll get a call from Jim asking me why the hell I let my oldest friend hobble home. No thank you. Did you know that man growls at people when he thinks you're hurt?"

Blair blinked. "He does? Wait, I knew that. He growled at you? When?"

Sue Mai just shook her head and changed the subject. "I'll pick you up at six-thirty. Opal's okay?"

Blair whistled softly. "What are we celebrating?"

"I'll tell you at dinner, okay?" she said with a smile. "Just make sure you look nice."

****

"Ellison," Jim answered the phone in the loft six hours later, tucking it under his ear as he continued to fold a stack of underwear.

"I hate owing you another favor," Sara began without preamble, "but could you pick me up?"

"Sure, where are you, and did you ride?"

"No, I thought I'd give the bus system here a shot, but there's apparently no bus service back to Miller Pond from the Ravensgate Mall this time of day. If I'd known there was a Saturday curfew, I wouldn't have decided to do some shopping." She sighed, sounding frustrated.

"No curfew, just budget cuts," Jim told her. "Meet you in front of the bookstore in half an hour?"

"I'll be here," Sara agreed.

Forty-five minutes later, Jim walked into the bookstore. It was still raining, although the rain had tampered off somewhat from the earlier torrential rain, and he'd spent a frustrating fifteen minutes trying to find an empty spot. Pushing his frustration aside, Jim glanced around the store, looking for Sara. Aware that the subject of her reading preferences hadn't come up, Jim decided to use the lack of being able to sense her right off as a way to figure out where she was. He breathed deeply but quickly, sorting out the noise and scents from the blankness that the Witchblade projected. Five minutes later, he smiled and headed for the back of the store.

She was apparently deep in perusal over a book in a section of the store Jim knew well, but she looked up when he approached. Some instinct – or maybe it was the way the carnelian stone glowed on her wrist – made Jim think that the Witchblade had given her some sort of warning, for the initial look of distrust he'd expected wasn't there this time. She stuck the book back on the shelf and smiled briefly.

"Thanks," she said.

"Not a problem," he told her. "Not getting that book?"

"Nah, I got what I needed out of it."

"Do you read a lot?" he asked as they exited the store and headed across the parking lot for his truck.

Sara grimaced, shaking her head. "Who has time? I had a bunch of books I used as reference for the job, you know how that is," she told him, and he nodded in understanding. "I lost pretty much everything in a fire the month before I moved out here."

"A fire? Was it an accident?"

"So they tell me, but –" she shrugged, resigned. "Nothing in my life has been an accident since I chased a suspect into a museum."

Jim considered her cynical tone, and wished he could do more than be there for her now. "Anything you miss the most? Besides the books?"

A shadow of grief crossed her face. "Nothing that’ll bring back the people who gave them to me." She took a deep breath and let it go. "You mentioned dinner earlier. That invitation still open? I’d be willing to do that if you’re willing to go over the cases again."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Anyone ever tell you all work and no play make for a stressed out cop?"

Sara half-chuckled. "Yeah, but –" she pointed to the bag in her hand "—I did my play right here." She eyed him speculatively. "Unless you're offering something else?" she said huskily, leaning close.

Amused at her obvious flirtation, Jim hid a smile. "Well, I am taking you to dinner, aren't I? We could call it a date."

For a moment, he had the pleasure of seeing her freeze. The parking lot was fairly well lit, which afforded him a fairly clear view of her face, even without extending his vision. He watched her consider his words, assess what the Witchblade told her in relation to him, and then she eyed him warily.

Jim grinned openly. "What, Pez, out of practice?" He considered her another moment and went with a hunch. "Or does that thing on your wrist make you do things you wouldn't otherwise?"

She let go of the breath she'd been holding and smiled ruefully. "Yeah. How much farther to your truck?"

In lieu of a verbal reply, Jim pointed to the far edge of the lot. Sara looked at the distance, considered, and wrapped the handle of her bag more tightly in her left hand. "Race you there. Loser buys dinner."

Jim won, but barely, his greater stride and height giving him a slight advantage over what he suspected was Sara's natural sprinting ability. She was laughing, though, when her hands touched the truck, and he chuckled, enjoying the sight as he opened the door for her. For a moment, he saw the knight instead of her, nodding gravely, and he felt a chill shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with the rain.

"Jim?" she asked, touching his arm, breaking the spell.

He shook his head and moved to the driver's side of the truck, unwilling to get into a discussion about what he'd seen – or how it had left him vividly aware that he'd just gotten approval for doing something he would've done anyway for any friend. Something big was going on here, bigger than he'd seen in a long time, and he wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Just then, the memory of Blair's vision flashed through him, and he groaned silently, thinking, _What good does a vague warning of trouble do when I can't arrest it?_

Thinking of Blair made him remember that it had been several hours since he'd seen his friend. Before he started up the truck, he glanced over at Sara. Something about her paranoia made him fall back on formalities drummed into him as a child. "Mind if Sandburg joins us?" he asked her.

She shot him a look full of puzzlement and surprise. "You have to ask?"

He chuckled. "You know what they say about assumptions."

She grinned in reply.

He wasn't altogether surprised to reach Blair's voicemail. "Hey, Chief, if you get this in the next twenty minutes, give me a call. Pez and I are having dinner and wondered if you wanted to join us." He disconnected the phone and stuck it in its usual place in the cup holder, then started up the truck.

"Not home?" Sara asked.

Jim shrugged as he negotiated their way out of the mall parking lot. "Probably ran into someone he knows. He has a talent for that. Some days it's felt like he knows half of Cascade." He grimaced briefly, remembering the day when all of Cascade knew who Blair Sandburg was, and felt the old anger flare through him. Though Blair didn't talk about it, Jim knew well the circle of Blair's friends had decreased significantly after that first disastrous press conference.

"Banks said you'd grown up here. Is that true for Blair as well?" Sara asked, curious.

"Not quite. He's lived here since he was sixteen, when he came here to attend college. He was a TA and a grad student at Rainier when we met." He glanced over at her as they waited at a stoplight. "I'm surprised that thing hasn't told you everything about us, given what you've shown it's capable of so far."

She laughed bitterly. "Only what it deems I need to know. Sometimes I have to force it to tell me, and when I do, I usually end up with a killer headache." She looked out the window and was silent a moment before she added, "I never expected to be able to talk to my new partner about this."

"Would you have?" Jim asked quietly as he accelerated through the stoplight.

"Would you have told me your secret?"

He half-chuckled at her question, realizing her answer was the same as his: eventually, maybe, if it became necessary. "So what kind of food are you in the mood for?" he asked, changing the subject.

She considered the question a moment. "I heard a rumor you cook," she said lightly.

He chuckled. "Yeah, I do, but you’re avoiding the question," he pointed out. He glanced over at her, realizing that she’d compressed her lips into a thin line, as if she was trying to hold back against some pain. Taking his attention away from driving, he focused on her face long enough to realize the beginning signs of a headache. "Tell you what. Let me figure it out and you can tell me if I sucked at guessing."

She shot him a grateful smile. "Somehow, with you, I don’t think there’d be too much guessing involved."

******

The mansion was over a hundred years old and sat on a slight hill overlooking the canal that cut through Cascade and bordered the university. Like many old houses in the neighborhood, it now served as a rental property for students. Tucked behind the protective shade of a large oak and bordered by a chain link fence, it wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but it did have a large porch and bay windows. Someone had set an old church pew and two battered deck chairs on the porch; a quilt had been tossed over the back of the pew. Cigarette butts lined a black ashtray near the door, but the empty beer bottles had all been stacked in a recycle bin that sat on one side of the pew.

The smell of summer’s end was in the air, and all the windows in the house were open to let in the pathetic breeze. In the living room, the house’s occupants lounged between two turbo fans.

"I don’t want to move again," the muscular young man on the floor griped in a thick Russian accent as he clutched a bottle of Gatorade. "Say it’s not happening, Sue Mai. Tell me the great Coral Mansion is not dissolving."

"Well, unless you want to buy this house, Mike," she countered from her perch on the overstuffed papasan chair.

He snorted. "On what salary? I’m still going to be working at the dry-cleaner’s until I find a better job. Sure we can’t set Mr. Silver-Tongue on our landlord again?"

"Like he’s not tired of me already? How many times did I talk to him over the last three years?"

"Oh, come on, Blair," the heavy-set brunette seated next to him shot back as she sipped from a bottle of Corona. "You’re the one who manages to get everything fixed. Besides, you’re the youngest. Can’t you try to say you’re going to be pathetically homeless or something?"

"He tried, Tracey," the lanky black man seated above Mike said sympathetically. "You should’ve heard him. Man, you were in rare form, hustling like it was going out of style."

"Still doesn’t change that there’s a realtor’s sign in the front yard," Blair complained. "Jason, you heard me – was I too much?"

"Nah, man, you were laying it on the line like it was the truth and nothing but," Jason returned with a grin, toasting him with the can of beer he held, "but Simpson wasn’t buying it. Yeah, you can bring me along to drive you anytime when you’re on that jazz."

Blair stared gloomily at his hands. "Didn’t change anything. He’s still selling the house, and even if he wasn’t, he wants to raise the rent."

Sue Mai sighed. "Damn, it was a lot easier when there were eight of us living here."

"Easier?" Jason snorted. "Maybe on the money, but I never could stand Ginnie’s cats, or Travis’ fascination with watching everyone eat."

"Oh, that was sick," Sue Mai agreed. "How many times did we try to come up with a reasonable cultural explanation for that one, Blair?"

"Too many," he agreed with a nod. "But he wasn’t the worst."

"No, Joe’s lectures on polar bears were worse," Mike added as Blair groaned and put his hands over his ears, remembering.

"Not nearly as bad as Kim’s used sex toys and dirty laundry in the bathroom," Tracey put in with a shudder, and watched as her housemates turned surprised eyes on her. "What, you never noticed?"

"Who wants to use the third floor bathroom when there are two perfectly good ones elsewhere?" Mike said. "So how long did she leave them lying around?"

"Like the dirty laundry," Tracey said drolly, and her housemates shuddered with revulsion.

"That was that smell!" Jason deduced. "Oh, God, I’d been wondering why it smelled so much better since she moved out."

Sue Mai chuckled. "Some detective you’re going to be, Jase, when you can’t find a crime scene in your own house."

"Yeah, well, I’m not a cop yet," he countered. "If I was, I’d be arresting Simpson for a hate crime."

"Don’t bother," Tracey advised him. "He’s not worth it."

"Yeah, but maybe we should pull the rental agreement out and take another look at it," Jason insisted.

"I already did, but have at it," Blair said, picking up a document from the coffee table and passing it over.

Surfacing from the vision, Sara blinked as she stared up at the skylight from the relative haven of being in Jim’s arms. She hadn’t intended to end up in his bed again tonight, but the lure of not being alone, of having some sort of shelter against the loneliness she thought would never end, had been too powerful to resist. Not wanting to wake her bed-partner, she resisted the urge to laugh aloud at the realization she’d been just kidding herself. As long as she wore the Witchblade, she’d always see something.

She let out a tired breath as she rewound what she’d seen. Clearly, the clues seemed to point to something in Blair’s past, but she didn’t understand who the players were without a scorecard or why that particular event was so pivotal. Maybe the answers lied in Blair’s old room? It was a thought worth checking out.

Given what she knew of Jim, she assumed he slept lightly. It seemed to take forever to ease herself out of his embrace, moving minutely so as not to wake him, and creep down the stairs. In the darkness of the early morning, she thought she remembered the layout of the loft fairly well. At the bottom of the steps, she let her eyes adjust to the gloom of the lower floor, and made her way to now-unused room.

*****

"Come on, Sue Mai, it's late, I need to go home," Blair pleaded. His earlier pleasure at helping his friend celebrate her latest promotion had faded hours before. He ached; dinner at the fine restaurant had been followed by going out clubbing. His leg throbbed, and he wanted nothing more than to go lie down. He was even willing to take the sleep induced by the prescription pain pills he'd been careful not to take too many of, unwilling to get addicted to using them. For a moment, he wished he still lived with Jim, and tried not to remember how good it had felt to have a Sentinel giving him a massage when he'd been recovering from being shot. Then again, if he was still living in the loft, he knew Jim would probably yell at him for pushing himself on the dance floor.

To Blair's surprise, Sue Mai gave in readily. "Yeah, I forgot how I can’t do this anymore," she told him. "It’s only one-thirty and I already feel like I’ve turned into a pumpkin."

"Maybe it’s the music," Blair suggested with a grin. He’d been surprised when, after stops at two dance clubs, they’d wound up in a karaoke bar. He’d been grateful for the reprieve from being on his feet, but it still didn’t stop his leg from reminding him it wasn’t quite healed yet.

Sue Mai chuckled as she rose to her feet. "Yeah, usually this place gets the better singers. Oh well, maybe it’s an off night."

They had just stepped out of the bar when a vaguely familiar male voice said, "Sue? Blair? That you two?"

Both turned towards the voice, which sounded like it came from the alley alongside the bar. The streetlight barely shined into the alley, and Blair instinctively grew cautious.

"Who is it?" he asked, automatically stepping forward to shield Sue Mai.

"Why don’t you come this way and see?" the voice teased.

"Why don’t you just cut the games?" Sue Mai demanded irritably, brushing past Blair’s attempt to protect her and stepping into the alley. "And nobody calls me Sue. My name’s Sue Mai."

"I’ll call you whatever I like, bitch."

Suddenly, Blair found himself wishing he hadn’t thought this evening was going to be a peaceful one. Hadn’t he learned not to tempt Murphy’s Law? Resolutely, he moved to stand beside Sue Mai. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw who stood waiting in the alley, he felt the bottom drop out of his evening.

"Alonzo? What are you doing here?" he asked cautiously. He hadn't seen the other man in years; had deliberately made a point of avoiding him as much as he could. Alonzo had quickly earned a place in Blair's mind as a world-class candidate for insanity when they'd met years before, in a house Blair had shared with Sue Mai and several others. Alonzo had lasted three months before being kicked to the curb by the mutual agreement of everyone in the house. It hadn't stopped Alonzo from continuing to creep everyone out in some fashion over the years, but he'd been a low-level threat, someone everyone knew about but didn't think was dangerous. Now Blair wondered if they'd been wrong to dismiss him so quickly.

As if sensing Blair's thoughts, the Hispanic man grinned. "Looking for the dragon," he told them. "Wanna help me find it?"

"I don't think so," Blair said warily, stepping back. Every instinct he had was telling him to run, and for a moment, Blair found himself wishing he'd gotten in the habit of being armed even while off-duty. He shook off the regret – too well aware not being armed while off-duty was a compromise he'd made in his head to keep the protests of his conscience at bay – and focused on getting the hell away from this situation.

Tugging on Sue Mai's arm, he told her, "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Not so fast," a new female voice said, and then Blair felt the prick of a needle and remembered nothing.

****

With a jerk, Jim woke up. Startled, he let his breathing calm before he sorted out what was normal and what wasn't. It didn't take long; even without a Sentinel's senses, Jim knew what his place was supposed to sound like at o'dark thirty in the morning. It was a lot quieter than it had once been, and not for the first time, Jim missed having Blair living with him. Then he realized what he'd heard was the sound of the French doors opening.

Hastily, ignoring the fact he wore only pajama bottoms, he made his way downstairs. "Sara?" he asked cautiously as he blinked and let his eyesight adjust to the semi-darkness. "You trying to sneak out on me?"

A rueful chuckle met his words. "If I said yes, would you hold it against me?"

"Front door's the other side of the kitchen, unless you want to try the fire escape. I wouldn't advise that, mind you, as it’ll set off a silent alarm to the fire department." Jim kept his voice even. He studied her, noting the way she held herself, and smelled the metallic scent he’d come to associate with the Witchblade when it was active. "Did you see something in your dreams?"

Minutes ticked by as Jim waited for a reply and he felt his frustration grow. He'd thought they were past this, after spending the entire evening together. She’d been the one to suggest that she stay, claiming she didn’t want to make him take her home when it had been so late. She’d been the one to come upstairs, wanting him to hold her again, in hopes of having another peaceful night.

He’d nearly decided to go with trying to apply one of his favorite interrogation tactics on her when she finally spoke.

"I know where he’s killing them."

_Yeah, right,_ Jim thought, noting the way she’d taken a breath and tried to project confidence into her voice. "I don’t think you’re as sure about that as you’d like me to believe," he observed as he moved towards the light switch for the kitchen. "Aside from that, you think the Witchblade can keep you from getting hopelessly lost in the city?"

She bit back the sigh, but he heard it anyway. "I was hoping it would, yeah."

"Never mind that it’s nearly four in the morning, and no judge is going to believe you had a sudden inspiration to go check out somewhere?"

"It’s worked before."

"And you’re not in New York anymore; the bus system shuts down between three am and five am. What were you going to do, steal my truck and hope I wouldn't notice?" He flipped on the lights, blinked, and sighed. Closing the distance between him and Sara, he noted the way the gauntlet had wrapped itself around her right forearm and decided to approach her cautiously. "Come on, Sara, you know better, and I really don’t want to explain to Simon why I wasn’t around to back you up."

She made a sound of frustration. "I want to check this out."

"I know," he said soothingly. "But unless you can give me a reason to let you run on impulse, I'm going to keep arguing for you to stay. You felt good in my arms, sleeping so peacefully." He offered her a smile. "I'd like to go back there. Been a while since I held a friend like that."

"You're just wishing I was someone else."

"I’m not," Jim argued bluntly as he shook his head. He shoved down the emotions that her words provoked; now was not the time to think about how close she was to the truth. "Quit listening to that damned bracelet for a minute and think like the detective I know you are. I’m not a goddamned rookie you can snowball, I’m not whoever the hell your ghosts are, and I’m sick of you acting like I should be kept in the dark about a case we’re both working on. I want to catch the son-of-a-bitch who's murdering people in my city, but I want to do it legally, so he doesn't wriggle free on any technicalities." He smiled grimly. "So let's sit down and talk about this. I'll make the coffee."

He busied himself with setting up the coffeemaker. He knew he’d need to brief Simon on whatever they figured out, but he wasn't going to call anyone until he had that first cup to jolt the rest of his body awake – and hopefully, take the edge off of Sara's temper as well as his own. Grabbing the bag of ground coffee beans that sat next to the coffeemaker, he measured out a portion into the permanent filter before resealing the bag. He filled the empty coffeepot with water.

"You believe me." The statement had an odd sense of wonder behind it, and Jim finished pouring water into the coffeemaker and turned on the appliance before he turned to face Sara. The gauntlet she'd worn had reformed into a bracelet, he noted.

"Wearing that really does make you paranoid, doesn't it?" he asked, the question rhetorical now. "If the past two nights aren't enough to show you I not only believe you, I trust you, then I'm not sure how much more proof I can give. So where is the warehouse?"

Sara blinked. "What makes you think it's a warehouse?" She inhaled the scent of the coffee as it brewed, and Jim hid a smile as he watched the smell calm her.

"Law of averages," Jim replied. "Nobody pays attention to what happens in a warehouse. Then again, if we go that route, it's probably some quiet little house in one of the neighborhoods by the U, where people are used to students renting the properties and no one asks questions."

She stared at him as if he'd suddenly declared himself psychic. Taking pity on her, he poured her a mug full of coffee and handed it to her. She drank automatically, and he waited until some of the color had returned to her face before pouring a cup of coffee of his own.

"It's a house," she admitted, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. "Maybe a church, too – I keep seeing it mixed in with that house. If you're willing to let me play guide dog, I can direct you to where it is."

"I'll do better than that," Jim suggested. "Let's wake up Sandburg, and he can guide us both, without risking our lives."

Sara eyed him warily. "What did you have in mind?"

"Hold that thought, I need to check to see if he's home." For a moment, he considered stretching his senses to find Blair, then discarded the idea. Although Jim knew the range of his senses from the years of practice and tests he and Blair had run, he was equally aware it took just as long to make a phone call.

When he got Blair’s voicemail again, Jim frowned, but said, "Call me when you get this message. Pez and I need you."

"Guess there goes that idea," Sara observed.

Jim held up a hand. "Not necessarily. It’s four o’clock in the morning; he’s probably asleep." He hung up the phone and turned to Sara. Leveling his gaze at her, he said quietly, "Quit holding back on me, Pezzini. I know you saw more than you’re telling, and you know how I know, so cut the crap."

She stared at him a moment, then set her coffee mug down. "Does the name ‘Coral Mansion’ mean anything to you?"

Jim thought about it a few moments. "It’s not ringing any bells, no. Why?"

"It’s a house Blair lived in for a while. Not sure when," she admitted. "I think it’s tied to the killer somehow."

"Did you get an address?"

She stared at him a moment before admitting reluctantly, "No, but I saw the outside of it. It’s near the canal, by the university."

"Which is a rather large stretch of land, on both sides of the canal," Jim countered. Seeing the stubborn, determined look on her face, he sighed. "Why don’t we give Sandburg a chance to call us back and then we’ll go check it out? Unless you got some sense that we have to do this right now?"

She stared at him, clearly unwilling to let it just go for the moment.

He stared right back. He wanted to find the killer, but he wasn’t about to disregard an easy avenue of information, either. He’d perfected his stare as the commanding officer of men who weren’t easily intimidated; it didn’t take long for Sara to break off her gaze and start pacing away from him, her arms crossed.

"I can't believe you're stalling, Ellison," Sara said accusingly.

Tired of her paranoia, Jim leveled his gaze at her. "I'm not stalling; I'm saving myself a headache later. If you want to go, Pezzini, the door's right there."

For a long, wordless moment, she stared at him. Turning, she headed for the door and unlocked it. She turned the door knob, but didn't open the door. With a ragged breath that sounded suspiciously like a choked-off sob, she leaned her head against the door and let go of the knob.

"I don't even know where the hell I'm going," she admitted, her voice low and angry.

"So stay and we'll figure it out together," Jim suggested, careful to keep his distance. A part of him wanted to go and enfold her in his arms, but he wasn't sure she wouldn’t take that wrong. Plus, he could see the Witchblade had shifted again, extending the filigree of the bracelet into something a little more glove-like. Jim wasn't sure what that meant, other than it had to be speaking to her, urging her onward. Some instinct told him if he approached her now when the 'blade was active she'd feel even more compelled to run.

She closed her eyes and drew in a breath as she compressed her lips into a thin line, then opened her eyes as she exhaled. Locking the door, she took another breath before she turned back to Jim, then closed the distance between them. Her eyes searched his, and he wondered what she was looking to find even as he met her gaze. Apparently satisfied, she brushed past him to refill her coffee mug and his before sitting down.

"Half an hour," she compromised. "If Blair's not here in a half hour, we'll go."

Jim nodded, accepting the offer. "Did you see anything else in your vision?"

Sara started to shake her head, then paused. "Got a couple of names," she said. "Maybe you know them?"

"Depends on who they are," Jim told her. "Blair hasn't always introduced me to all of his friends, and he lost a number of them some years ago."

"Would any of them be people he lived with?"

Surprised, Jim looked at her. "Probably. He was living in a warehouse when we met; said it was the cheapest he could find without having to share yet another house with someone. What do you have?"

Half-closing her eyes, she concentrated, as if she was willing the Witchblade to give her more information. From the slight metallic smell, Jim guessed she was forcing it into compliance. Several minutes passed before she spoke again.

"Jason Carter, Mike Pegler, Tracey Hollings, Sue Mai Roberts, and someone named Kim." She shook her head and looked at Jim. "I got a flash of the rental agreement. They were living at 1359 Coral Street."

"Oh, those guys," Jim said, surprised. "Pretty diverse group, but Sandburg tends to have friends all over. Carter's a 911 supervisor. One of the best dispatchers in the region, too. Good, solid, dependable, and one of the sanest dispatchers I've ever met. Told me he thought about being a cop until he started working as a dispatcher and got hooked on being one. Sue Mai's a good friend – I met her about six months after Blair started living here; she came by to drop off something he'd asked her to get for him. Mike's working for one of the hospitals in Cascade, but he and Sandburg aren't friends anymore. Same thing with Tracey – she made it pretty clear to me she thinks he's a fraud and a hypocrite." He shook his head. "Came up to me at Target and told me I should have my Cop of the Year Award taken away for sticking by him."

Sara's eyebrows shot up. "You think she might have something to do with this?"

Jim considered it. "No. She's opinionated and whiny, but her biggest problem seems to be the fact she's constantly without someone. As for the Kim you mentioned – I don't know who that could be, but if it's the house I think it is, then there were a number of people sharing it."

"It's got to do something with them," Sara insisted. "Do you know where that address is?"

Jim glanced at his watch, seeing that the half hour they'd agreed to give Blair had passed. For a moment, he hesitated. Reminding himself that if Blair did get the message, he'd try reaching Jim by whatever means necessary, Jim shoved his hesitation away. "Let me get changed and we'll go."

He’d just gotten his shoes on when his cell phone rang. "Sandburg?"

"No, it’s Sue Mai." She sounded terrified. "Look, I don’t know what happened, but you’d better come. Something’s not right with Blair."

"Calm down, Sue Mai. Where are you?"

"Not sure. Somewhere in Ravensgate, I think. I was drinking and I gave Blair the keys to drive and –"

"Just stay put," Jim told her firmly. "Do you recognize anything?"

"No. It's too dark in here and something hit my head."

In the most soothing voice Jim could manage, he said, "Do you hurt anywhere else?"

"Not really, but Blair's really got me scared. The guy hit him pretty hard and I don't know where he is. I think—" Jim heard a light switch being thrown. "We're in the basement of a church. Oh God. Oh my God."

"What is it?"

The sound of ragged breathing met his ears. "Just get here, please."

"We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Okay," Sue Mai said raggedly, and disconnected the line.

Jim looked at Sara. "Come on, you wanted to go somewhere?"

She eyed him strangely, and with a sudden shock Jim realized he hadn't actually touched a phone. "Do _you_ know where we're going?"

"Of course," he told her as they exited the loft. "A church in Ravensgate."

"Out of how many?"

"Only one matters," he replied. He wasn't sure where his sense of confidence was coming from, or how he knew exactly which one it was. He thought he saw Blair's spirit-wolf leading him, or maybe it was that invisible bond between them, but he knew the way just as surely as he knew his Guide was in trouble. He reached for Sara's hand, feeling her reluctance as if it was a living thing. "Come on, we need to hurry." The address exploded in his head and he heard his jaguar growl as Jim felt the Witchblade shift underneath his grip. Jim let go and met Sara's eyes.

"What are you waiting for, my permission?" she demanded, jostling him forward.

****

In the early morning light, the church looked innocent, if a bit run-down. Jim eased the truck into a parking spot half a block down from it, not wanting to risk being detected. He took a moment to check on the occupants of the church. He could hear Blair's heartbeat, sluggish and slow, and someone else's, unfamiliar and excited. He thought he heard two other heartbeats, but they felt fainter, and he felt the edges of a zone before he reluctantly pulled back.

"They're in there," Sara stated, seeing the way his face had tightened with recognition.

He nodded. "You getting anything?"

She shook her head, her lips compressing in a grim line. "Only that who we're looking for is in there."

Habit born out of bad experience had Jim pulling out the two bulletproof vests he'd stashed in the back of the truck, but Sara shook her head, refusing the offer. He glanced over at Sara, seeing that the Witchblade had transformed into a gauntlet that covered her entire forearm. For a moment, he saw the female knight again, and half-chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you don't need that."

She smiled briefly, and reached for the cell phone he'd dropped into the cup holder.

He used the time she spent calling in the location to Dispatch to pull on the bulletproof vest. When Sara had finished her terse report and hung up, she turned to Jim.

"Ready?" she asked.

Not trusting his voice, he just motioned for them to exit the truck. She joined him at the front of the truck and together they moved to rescue a friend.

Heart pounding in his ears, Jim led the way into the church, finding the front doors surprisingly unlocked. Following the sound of a sluggish heartbeat, Jim led the way into the basement.

Like a snapshot, time froze as his mind registered the tableau in front of him. The basement's walls were papered with a variety of religious-themed posters and lined by plastic folding tables; a closet stood in one corner. Three narrow support columns broke the flow of the otherwise open space; the center column was being used as a whipping post. Blair was nowhere to be seen. A Hispanic, solidly built man dressed in khakis, a black T-shirt, and a butcher's apron wielded a whip with precise, rhythmic strokes on a naked half-Asian woman Jim recognized as being Sue Mai. For all of Jim's training and experience, he froze, caught between the rage that rose up inside him that his friend – Blair's oldest friend -- was hurt and the need to follow the rules of his job.

Sara reacted faster, bringing her gun to bear on the man who stood, whipping a naked body past recognition.

"Freeze, Cascade PD!" Sara ordered, and Jim silently thanked her.

"Drop the whip. You're under arrest," Jim growled.

The man turned, the whip snaking out to catch Sara, but suddenly the gun in her hand transformed into a sword, cutting the whip's reach with a suddenness that made time unfreeze. The look on the man's face was priceless. Stunned, he dropped the whip.

Not trusting the man to bolt, Sara handcuffed him to one of the other columns. Together, Jim and Sara removed Sue Mai from the center column where Jim quickly assessed her injuries. She'd apparently passed out from the pain, but the damage the whip had wrought wasn't yet fatal, though she was bleeding profusely. Jim caught the glimpse of a small dragon tattoo just above her hip.

Just then, the sound of the safety switch of a gun flipping off registered. Jim rose from the floor where he and Sara had moved Sue Mai and drew his gun to meet the new threat.

"Tsk, tsk," a twenty-something, dark-skinned woman said as she came closer, holding a handgun steady as she did so. Jim estimated her height at 5'6" at the most. Her dark brown hair had been braided back, and she wore no jewelry. Her brown eyes were set in an otherwise ordinary face. She had a broad build and was slightly overweight. She wore rubber rain boots, jeans, and a navy T-shirt emblazoned with the words "New Life Hope International Youth Group."

"Cascade PD. Drop the gun," Jim ordered.

"I don't think so," the stranger said. "You see, you're interfering with my project." She fired, and the bullet hit Jim's vest. Staggered by the impact, he fought the pain and tried to stay upright as Sara reacted, firing her weapon at the woman. The woman fell, disbelief frozen forever on her features as Sara's aim rang true and she died.

The clatter of footsteps and sirens sounded then, and Jim met Sara's eyes. "I'm okay," he managed. "Check the closet and I'll keep an eye on this idiot." Jim gestured to the man still handcuffed to the post.

Warily, Sara moved across the room to the closet. "Locked," she told Jim, trying the door.

"Sandburg's in there," Jim called back, watching the way their prisoner's eyes lit with glee at the idea.

Sara swore under her breath, then stalked back to their prisoner. She crouched down, the Witchblade a steel gauntlet of fear as she pressed her forearm against the throat of their prisoner. "Where are the keys?" she demanded, and the man's eyes widened and he gulped in air like a dying fish.

Sara smiled grimly and rose as a sword suddenly appeared in her hand, pressing against the man's throat.

"Pez. Careful," Jim warned, not liking the way she smelled of bloodlust and vengeance.

"Oh, he knows what this is, don't you, Alonzo?" Sara purred.

The sheer fear in Alonzo's eyes matched the way he drooled. "Dragons come to get me. Have to get them, have to eat them before they eat me," he babbled nervously.

"Answer me," Sara demanded. "Or know justice the way your girlfriend over there knew it."

"Drea – Drea had the keys," Alonzo babbled, his head nodding towards the dead woman. "Don't – don't – please don't make me see the dragon again."

"You'll see it in your nightmares," Sara promised darkly, stepping back. With a shudder of breath, Sara willed the Witchblade back into a bracelet before stepping over to Drea and carefully fishing a set of keys out from one of the woman's jeans pockets.

It didn't take long to unlock the closet door. Blair fell out, clearly drugged unconscious before being shoved into the closet. Sara staggered under his weight before Jim rushed to brace her, wincing as the movement reminded him he was bruised under the bulletproof vest.

The sound of the cavalry arriving mingled with footsteps running down the sloped entrance to the basement room. A broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man dressed in a priest's robes entered. Hastily, Sara shifted Blair's weight to Jim, who shifted Blair to the floor so he could cover Sara, and raised her weapon at the stranger.

"Freeze, Cascade PD."

Seeing Sara and Jim's guns pointed directly at him, the stranger raised his hands.

"Oh, thank God. I'm Reverend Keaton. You must have found my daughter already." He made the mistake of looking down, and his face crumpled as he saw the young woman on the floor. "Oh, Drea, no," he wailed, but his wailing sounded less grief-stricken than the situation warranted.

"If that's your daughter, sir, I’m sorry," Sara said apologetically, but her voice was hard. Something about her tone made Jim eye the reverend warily, and he realized what was wrong. The reverend was staying put – not rushing to hold the body of his daughter as one might expect, police orders be damned.

Reverend Keaton sighed heavily. "I am, too," he said, closing his eyes briefly. "I warned her she was going to hell." He sounded deeply disappointed; as if he'd expected something like this to happen and was more upset his expectation had been fulfilled than anything else. Jim frowned, not liking the man's reaction at all.

Reverend Keaton focused past his daughter to see the rest of the scene. "Dr. Sandburg?" he asked, sounding clearly shocked. "What is he doing here?" His gaze swung towards the man handcuffed to the column. "Alonzo? You promised not to hurt anyone."

Alonzo giggled. "No, you believed I promised." He rose to his feet, struggling against the handcuffs. "You didn't keep your promises, Father, why should I?"

Furiously, Reverend Keaton shot back, "Because I said you would burn in hell, and burn you will, Alonzo, bastard child of the woman who betrayed me." He drew himself up and took a few calming breaths before turning to Jim and Sara. "May I go?" he asked, startling the two detectives. "I'll be upstairs if you need a statement."

Seeing a pair of uniforms behind the priest, Jim observed, "You don't seem terribly surprised by this."

Reverend Keaton's expression shifted momentarily, breaking the calm mask he wore. He looked both pissed and disheartened. "No. They put themselves on this path – and I warned them, little good did that do. They who follow the dragon of temptation will burn in hell."

"I see," Jim murmured, and glancing at Sara, saw his understanding reflected in her eyes. "Why don't you go with the officers behind you and they'll take a statement from you."

When the trio had left, Sara turned to Jim. "Fire and brimstone much?" she murmured as they maneuvered Alonzo to his feet.

"I'd say," Jim agreed as Alonzo babbled about the dragons that were going to come and get him.

****

Thirty hours later, Blair was still in the hospital, recovering from being shot with a powerful narcotic; he'd woken briefly only to slide right back into dreamland. Given his medical history, the attending physician had overruled Jim's desire to bring him home to sleep the rest of the drug off. Sue Mai would recover, although her stomach was heavily scarred, and she had no explanation for why Jim had been so sure she'd called. Jim put it down to some weird mystic thing, no doubt influenced by the Witchblade and whatever shamanistic power Blair might've had available to him before the drug had rendered him completely out for the count. Sara had been the only one to emerge unharmed, but there were new shadows in her eyes. Like Jim, she was under administrative suspension, although in her case it was for discharging her weapon.

Sara walked up to Jim where he sat on bench under the shade of a tree at a park near the precinct. Simon had made it very clear that if he showed up in the bullpen, he was going to regret it.

"You get the info on our perps?" Jim asked Sara now.

"Yeah," she said, nodding and relaxing the face of such a routine question. "Banks let me sit in on the interrogation." A half-smile formed on her lips. "Said he figured it was easier to let me watch than have you thinking you were left out."

Jim chuckled a little at that. He'd wanted to be there, but Simon had overruled him, sending him to the hospital to make sure he hadn't cracked any ribs or had other injuries – and allowing Jim the luxury, once he was checked out, to check on his Guide. Simon knew Jim wouldn't feel assured until he'd checked Blair out for himself, as only a Sentinel could check out his Guide.

"So what did you find out?" Jim asked Sara.

"Whip-boy was Alonzo Martinez; the shooter was Drea Keaton. Drea was the assistant to the coordinator of the traveling exhibits at the natural history museum at Rainier, whose name is Judy Younger. Keaton was pissed that her boss kept dating losers; she convinced Martinez, her half-brother, to go along with her plan to eliminate said losers. Apparently --" and Sara blew out a resigned breath "—he was already obsessed with the Witchblade and dragons."

Jim groaned. "That ties with what Sandburg told me once about Younger having the worst luck in people." He frowned as a memory came to mind. "She tried to get him to buy a replica bracelet of the Witchblade when there was an exhibit at the museum six months ago." He shook his head. "I wish I'd remembered that sooner."

"And probably gotten nowhere," Sara countered. "Keaton would've lawyered up, or rabbited. Maybe we'd still end up here, but in worse shape."

Jim sighed, conceding the point. "Any headway with talking with the reverend?"

"Some," Sara replied. "Guy's a head case himself – no grief over losing his children, as if they got what they deserved." She shuddered, repulsed by the idea a parent could think that way.

"You never know with people," Jim offered.

"Yeah, well, that's just cold," Sara returned. "I believe in justice, don't regret doing what I did, but that's just…"

"No accounting for what people believe?" Jim suggested, understanding.

"Yeah." Sara blew out a breath. For all of her experience, she would never understand why a parent could be so cruel. "I wouldn't be surprised to find out he beat his kids while they were growing up, trying to beat the devil out of them or something. Anyway, Reverend Keaton said Martinez became obsessed with what he'd seen at the exhibit. Given the way the reverend kept going on about how Martinez gave into the dragon, I'm not surprised he went crazy. His half-sister just gave him a target. He knew who had the tattoos since he worked in a tattoo shop up until last year – we finally got a call back from one of the parlors, saying they'd fired him for wanting to do nothing but dragon tattoos and getting obsessed with stalking the people who had them."

"Took them long enough," Jim growled.

"Guy I spoke to said he's had a lot of turnover. Didn't click until he had a client come in asking about that 'creepy dragon guy.'"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Great."

Sara nodded her agreement. "Rafe's checking now to make sure we aren't missing anyone else; I wouldn't be surprised if we end up with a few more murders to Martinez's name. Nothing against Homicide, but if they're not looking for a pattern, they're going to miss it."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, that's when we step in, usually. What about the house?"

"Martinez just knew who he targeted – said Drea told him who to go after, that they'd go after them together. He ID'd the dead as Travis Hunt and Kim Wang. We'll have to ask Blair when he wakes up," Sara told him. "But I'll bet you they all knew each other because of the Coral Mansion."

"That a feeling you have or something that thing showed you?"

She managed a half-laugh. "Both." She paused. "You really aren't freaked out by this thing." She gestured to the bracelet on her wrist.

Tiredly, Jim complained, "Now I know why Sandburg kept testing my senses. He couldn't believe it either."

Startled, Sara absorbed the words, then laughed freely. "He didn't."

"Oh, yeah, you should've seen the disco ball he had set up. On second thought, better you didn't." Jim couldn't quite hold the grumble; he knew what those seemingly endless tests had done to fine-tune his controls. He reached out to Sara and grasped her hand, gripping firmly and squeezing once, reassuringly, before letting go. "Some days I can't believe it either," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Sara agreed just as quietly.

A small silence fell and Jim waited expectantly as Sara studied him. "Surprised you aren't still keeping vigil over Sleeping Beauty."

"Dinner break," he told her with a slight grin. "Besides, I figured you might want to check on him yourself."

Sara let go of the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I'd like that." She started walking beside Jim, headed towards the park's parking lot.

Once safely inside the truck, she turned to face her partner. "Thanks, Ellison."

He smiled. "Yeah, well, that just means you're paying for dinner."

"Oh?" Sara said archly. "I brought you info, therefore you owe me."

\-- finis --


End file.
